


Anathema

by Vanwatano



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Curufin's Daddy Issues, being a lord/prince is no less difficult, but he tries, but hopefully some lines will make you smile, cuvo has no answer, how to be a 'good' lord while being self-conscious, how to deal with shame, how to hide shame; insecurities despite one's pride, not a happy fic, parenthood is a hardship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2018-11-22 09:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanwatano/pseuds/Vanwatano
Summary: After their flight from Himlad, until their flight from Nargothrond, Celegorm and Curufin will have to face the abyss of their defeat, the bitterness of their broken pride, and the tempting shadows of greed. Through envy, frustration, pain and resentment, they will have to choose which path to follow, unaware that their choices will affect all the people of Beleriand.Curufin's pov.Canon based, more like a personal combination between the different versions given in HoME and the Silmarillion.[I began to write this fanfic in May 2016 - and posted on SWG - and I plan to write new chapters this summer]





	1. Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lords of Himlad have been driven away from their lands, the troops coming from Angband overwhelming their forces in the Pass of Aglon and forcing them to retreat and to flee. With their troops, they followed the Marches of Doriath, and stayed in Dimbar for a few hours.  
> Last update: 03 -02 - 2017

“We must go back.”  


Curufin looked into his brother's eyes, to make sure that the words weren’t coming from another ghost, crawling into his mind like the breath of death. But there was no ghost, except those they had left in Aglon, and among the confusion of their makeshift camp, Celegorm was standing, stern and still trembling with adrenaline, silver hair soiled with dry blood and his eyes shining with a painful intensity. “Do you really think it would be wise, Tyelkormo?”  


“And what is this wisdom you are refering to?” There was rage, provocation and determination in Celegorm's eyes, a deep, burning rage which Curufin knew too well. “Our brothers are still there, fighting and keeping the enemies away from the Marches. We cannot leave them, Atarincë!”

“And I will not let our people face the wan mercy of death!” Curufin's voice had grown louder. Loud enough to cover Turcafinwë's voice, but also loud enough to catch their kinsmen's attention. Celegorm peeked at them, making sure his little brother's voice hadn't wreaked havoc among the warriors, but there was only a few worried glances. In this confusion, in their distress, they did not seem to care about the two lords’ argument. There were too many wounds to heal, too many minds to soothe, and too much exhaustion. 

"What is it, Tyelkormo?” Curufin continued, his voice returning to a quiet and yet caustic whisper. “Do you worry for them, now?”  


“We do not need any discord.” Celegorm hissed, and as he dropped his gaze, Curufin noticed on his brother's face the first twitches of remorse and sadness, lost among the tensed rage which Celegorm was still carrying. “Sacrifice is the prize to pay, Curvo. You know that. We have already sacrificed a lot.”  


“Shall we sacrifice more lives?” Curufin’s determination, although usually dreadfuly strong, was slowly splitting, and through the cracks, hesitation was dripping. His own anger and pride would drive him eastwards, toward his brothers and the flames of war, but more than a warrior, Curufin was a lord, and his responsibilities toward his people would not be so easily ignored. “Himlad is lost, Turco. For now.” He added, his voice now low, as a reflection of the ache which was seizing his heart. “You know that."  


Slowly, Celegorm nodded, and Curufin took advantage of his brother's silence to continue. “Maitimo will hold Himring and the Marches, and he is not alone. They will not fail, Turco. And what help do we have to offer now?” He wasn’t only trying to convince his brother, but also to convince himself, and endlessly his mind was swaying, hesitating between the two options which were dancing before him. With a soft movement, Curufin stepped closer, and gave in a whisper the rest of his speech. “Look at our people. The main part of them is wounded, and the other part is exhausted. We cannot lead them into another battle, unless you plan a desperate bloodbath.”  


“I will not accept defeat." Celegorm's words echoed through a groan, and in this groan Curufin could hear all of his brother's frustration and anger, his pain and the remains of his hope.  


“We are not defeated yet, brother.” Curufin either would not accept failure, although his heart was already bleeding with the loss, and what would eventually appear as a failure. “We need to gather our last strengths before another battle, we need to stitch the wounds before screaming for revenge.”  


“We must take Himlad back.” Tyelkormo was stubborn, this Curufin knew, and he barely needed to look into his brother's eyes to see how powerfully his will was standing. He knew it and understood it. Losing Himlad definitely was not an option, for either of them, but turning back now would be nothing less than suicide.

“Turco, among the bloodshed and war cries, we managed to flee through the Marches of Doriath, and no Thindarin troop had yet tried to stop us. It is a miracle. But it will not happen twice, you know Thingol will not let it happen again. They knew we were running away, and Elwë must be jeering at us now, safe in his caves.” A ball of anger burning in the pit of his stomach, Curufin bit his bile back, and yet his bitterness was still dripping from his words.  


“Then let us show him that we do not run away. Let us return to Aglon.” Celegorm had grasped his little brother’s arm, forcing him to look into his eyes as if it would be enough to convince him. But Curufin’s mind was strong, and despite his affection and respect for Celegorm, he would not indulge, convinced that Thingol would stand between them and their brothers. “He will close the way. Behind us I can already feel his archers and warriors filling the Marches, their arrows and swords pointed at us... As if we needed another foe. We will not fight against them, Tyelkormo.”  


Giving a disappointed snort, Celegorm pulled away, and when he talked then, his voice was quiet, sombre, pondering a suggestion he seemed to be afraid to speak. “Nan Dungortheb...”  


“I will not take any risk through Nan Dungortheb!” Curufin cut him off in an aggressive hiss. “Not with our warriors standing on the edge of exhaustion and despair.”  


“You talk as if there were no hope.” Celegorm spat, and he stepped away, his heavy gait betraying the wound on his left knee. But his features were not weak, and his voice was imbued with a fierce disapproval. “Father would not have backed away like you do, Atarincë. Father would have talked and found the words to make hope and strength return to their hearts. To my heart.”  


Celegorm was right, Curufin thought. Fëanor wouldn’t have reacted like this... Fëanor wouldn't have let the enemy invade Himlad and his people would not be hiding, wounded, in the shadows of the Crissaegrim. But what could the mountains, or their shadows, offer them now, save a brief respite?  
Brithiach was not far either, and from their hiding place, the Ñoldor could see the highest trees of Brethil. Southward was Doriath, forbidden to their kin, and Curufin could feel the power of the Girdle keeping them away, like a mist of power growing deeper and heavier with each new hour. Melian surely knew about their presence, so close to their realm, and if Thingol had not reacted yet, Curufin was certain that the Grey King was keeping a careful eye on them.  


“I must find Canyórë.” The eldest added as he stepped away. “We all have much to do, but I will see you later, brother... and we shall decide.”  


The sigh which left Curufin's lips was heavy and painful in the Ñoldo’s sore throat. The last battle had taken more than the lives of his people and his lands; it had ripped something off, taking away a part of him which he hadn't defined yet.  


Celegorm's words were still buzzing in his mind when his gaze fell upon his son. Celebrimbor was kneeling next to a wounded soldier, pouring water for the poor Elf, and giving him words of hope and courage. Celebrimbor was limping too, and from where he stood Curufin looked with horror at the blood upon his son's plating.  


They couldn't force them to walk through Nan Dungortheb. Not now. This madness had to stop, if only for a few days. And yet, staying away from the battle, hiding in the shadows of the North was no glorious action, and Curufin's pride was burning with the embers of his disillusionment. They could not go back, but they could not hide and let their brothers fight alone.  


“Father, the water supply is running low.” Celebrimbor's voice pulled Curufin away from his thoughts, and with weary eyes he looked at the youthful face. “Should we send a few men to Mindeb? They would be back before the night with enough water for the next days.”  


“Excellent idea.” Curufin nodded, glad to have his son beside him, safe, and already he could see a lord growing out of him. “You will appoint the scouts and give them the orders, but first I want you to see someone for your leg.”  


“Only if you see someone for you shoulder, father.” Curufin blinked, and with surprise he observed his son's serious features. “You are as wounded as I am, and yet you did not get any rest since we have settled here.”  


“I have much to do, son.” In fact, the troubles and fears had replaced the pain which should have been devouring his flesh, and Curufin could barely feel the biting of the wound anymore. “The blade was not poisoned; the wound shall heal by itself.”  


“And so shall mine, father.” Celebrimbor made an attempt for a smile, but in this smile Curufin could see the misery and fears which had invaded his son's mind. “If we must go back to Aglon, I will follow you father. And fight with you. But... If I may, I have talked to them, our people... They are not ready. In mind and body... They need time.”  


“We cannot stay here more than a night, Tyelperinquar.” The attempt to hide his anxiousness and hesitation was a success, but deep inside, Curufin was screaming his frustration. Celebrimbor's words were only confirming his own thoughts, and yet, turning his back to the Marches was a move he was not totally ready to do yet. Hiding behind his sternness, he rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezed it softly and nodded. “Please, do something for your leg and send the scouts to the river while I clean my shoulder and talk to your uncle.”  


With a nod, Celebrimbor clasped his fingers around his father's hand, gave another fragile smile, and left.

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They had no tent, no blanket and barely enough supplies for everyone. The night had fallen upon the camp, and the orders had been given. Every uninjured Ñoldo would guard it, no fire would be lighted, and silence had been required. The hosts of orcs were numerous in the lands now, and from their hidden place, they could still hear the battle cries and the steel singing from afar.  


His shoulder was painful. The wound had been stitched rather hastily, but Curufin could not care less. His mind was too absorbed by the current situation, the possible solutions, and the help they might actually get. They needed help. It was hard to admit, but the sons of Fëanor would have to put their pride aside and ask for help, for the thousand lives that depended on them. Curvo's thoughts were floating over Brethil. The Haladin had always been counted among their allies, after all. But their land they had received from Thingol himself, and Curufin doubted the Grey King would welcome their presence in a place so close to the girdle, and neither he, nor Celegorm intended to humble themselves at the feet of Thingol. It was not only a matter of pride, but also a matter of blood, of kinship and power.  


“There must be men in Brithiach, cautiously protecting their borders, in the name of King Thingol.” Celegorm's words were followed by a bitter laughter, but he kept it quiet and sat down next to his brother, Huan beside him. Curufin hadn’t heard them come, and he welcomed their arrival with a slow nod. "I suppose they would not open the ford, unless they plan to stick their blades into a orc's throat.”  


“Can you blame them?” Asked Curufin, unable to prevent a smirk.  


“Aye, you are right, brother. Their decision is the wisest and the safest, and yet, it leaves a bitter taste in my throat. We will find no shelter in Brethil.”  


Curufin frowned, and peeked at his brother with a spark of uncertainty in his eyes. “I thought you wanted to go back to Aglon... Have you changed you mind before I could convince you?”  


“I did not want to give you this satisfaction.” After a chuckle, Celegorm remained quiet a few seconds, and in his eyes Curufin saw the depths of his current wounds, these wounds he was hiding behind his gentle provocations and mocking smiles. The same wounds which were gushing blood in Curufin’s own mind. “I have walked among them, Curvo.” Celegorm finally continued, quietly, his voice suddenly turning soft and sad. “I saw their bruises, and heard their cries. Most of them are eager for battle and revenge, but.... Can they fight?”  


“The archers would follow you through the gates of Angamando, Turco, be they wounded or not.”  


“Do not tempt me.”  


The remark pulled a short chuckle from Curufin's lips, but his smile soon vanished, replaced by a concerned pout. “How is your knee?”

“Better than your shoulder.” Celegorm replied, and despite the seriousness of his face, Curufin could see the shadow of a smirk upon his lips. Huan shifted, resting his heavy head upon Celegorm’s thigh, and looked at the two Ñoldor with what seemed to be worry.  


“I can fight, ride and think. That is all I need...” Curufin replied firmly, grasping his shoulder to prove his brother that the injury wasn't as serious as he seemed to think. “How many horses have we lost?”  


“Since we left Himlad? Not so much. The proximity of Nan Dungothred frightened more than one, and approximately ten percent of the original effective ran away before we could reach Dimbar. I have sent a few hunters after them. The rest is nervous, but Canyórë is working on that.”  


“Percentages, Turco?” With a quiet snicker, Curufin tilted his head and gave his brother the kind of mocking look which always made Celegorm bark. “You definitely spent too much time with Moryo...”  


“Says the one who actually traded with the Casari.” The reply had come with a hiss, mocking and relatively harsh, though they both knew this game of so-called mockery was only a way to look away from the horror of the situation. It didn't last, and a heavy silence fell upon the two brothers, during which Curufin kept his eyes on the lampstone which stood between them, one of the few which they had saved from the assault.  


“I want to go back to Aglon as much as you do, Turco.” The words had come in a breath, hasty and powerful. “But we cannot ask them to do it. They would follow. But we cannot condemn them.” Curufin had made his mind, and still a voice was whispering within him, still the questions lingered, and his father's name, his father's voice and strength haunted him. He was intimately convinced that such a defeat would have never happened to Fëanor. His father would have held the land, or died on the battlefield. But Curufin was still alive, and the land was lost.  


He could still see it in his mind, before his eyes; The battle, from the moment it had begun to the moment they had called for retreat. Every second, every decision, every blow, every corpse; and his people's blood dripping next to the awful orkish blood. The land was not only lost, it was soiled now, and in the Aros, red and black were probably merging in an awful macabre painting.  


They were supposed to be prepared. They had expected it and planned everything. But retreat... This word had never been pronounced, none of these situations had ever been imagined. Losing the Pass after so many years, so many efforts and hopes, it was not fair. It was not right. It was not what was supposed to happen, and the bile of his defeat was now burning in Curufin's stomach.  


Silence was suddenly broken by Celegorm, who got up and adjusted the daggers on his belt. ” We shall have our revenge, and we shall taste it, brother, like the sweetest mead. In the meanwhile, we must keep them safe. But we shall not hide forever.”  


Oh no, they would not. Not like Thingol, locked in his caves. Not like Turgon, protected in his hidden city, wherever it was, safe, shielded from the bloodshed and the horror his kin had to face. The High King at least, was fighting, and so was his eldest son, and together they were protecting Hithlum, which seemed to stand... But for how long?  


Finrod too was fighting in the North, protecting the lands which had not been taken yet. Many of them had fallen, his brothers had fallen, but the tidings the Fëanorians had received before their flight had been clear; Findarato had ridden forth into battle and risked his own blood. The three houses of the Ñoldor were fighting in concert, and although the thought itself was but a mere comfort to Curufin, to their people, it meant hope.  


Where was Finrod now? Had he left the battlefield, mourning his brothers in the darkness of his own caves? Had he reached Minas Tirith?  


Curufin froze, hit by the obvious reality of it, and he cursed himself aloud, blaming his mind for keeping the epiphany away for so long. The solution was clear now, and so terribly easy. Minas Tirith was the key... If it had not fallen. No tiding had come from Orodreth, but Tol Sirion had been greatly fortified during the past decades. Even if Felagund had returned to Nargothrond, Orodreth could still offer them the protection of the walls which stood upon the island.  


“He has all the reasons to refuse.” It was Celegorm's voice, and as he talked, Curufin looked at him, startled. “He had all the reasons to keep his doors shut and you know it, Curvo.”  


“Who allowed you to creep into my mind?” Standing up, Curufin gave his brother a look of disappointment which, despite its darkness, didn't seem to impress Celegorm.  


“You tend to drop your guard when you are tired or too enthusiastic. It just happened, and I was next to you. Blame yourself.”  


Celegorm was right, and yet Curufin's irritation wasn't soothed. Osanwe was a dangerous device, and he seldom played with it for the safety of his own sanity... and intimacy. He and Celegorm had spent too many years side by side, the connection between their fëar had happened naturally, with no former attempt and no great expectation. It had simply happened. But to Curufin, there was still a thick line between his private throughs - most of them - and the images he allowed his brother to grasp. When something, as insignificant as it could be, escaped from the walls of his mind, Curufin cringed, horrified by his own carelessness.  


“Artaresto will refuse.”  


“I will convince him.” Curufin put his frustration aside, promising himself to lecture his brother later about osanwe and his use of it, and focused on his plan. “We shall leave tomorrow, right after dawn, and follow the road to the west, to Brithiach. There, you shall wait with our people, and I will go to Tol Sirion alone. Once Artaresto convinced, I will send a messenger and you will guide our people to Minas Tirith.”  


A wince on his face, Celegorm pondered the words. “Why not going there all together, then? When he will see the state of our people, pity might take Artaresto’s heart.”

“I do not want him to pity us.” With a hasty shake of his head, Curufin stepped away, already putting into places the first strings of his plans. “We are at war. He probably expects an attack from the North. His father is dead, along with one of his uncle, and Findarato's northern lands are lost. He will not be calm. His heart might not be imbued with generosity. Besides, he must not have kept the sweetest memories from our last meeting. You are right, he will not welcome a wounded Eldarin army, knocking on his door... not even a Ñoldorin army. But there must be a way to convince him.”

Celegorm, followed by Huan, was walking behind his brother, and it was his turn now to shake his head. “And what exactly do you fear? Do you think his archers would shot us from the borders of Sirion? No, Atarincë, this is a loss of time. We will go all together, or we will not go.”

Curufin stropped, irritation weighing his heart, but his voice was calm when he replied to his brother. “Artaresto still obeys his uncle, and I greatly doubt Findarato is in Minas Tirith. The commander will not make such an important decision without the approval of his king... unless I persuade him. Unless I explain him why he should take this risk.”

“And why exactly should he take this risk?”

Still and impassive, Curufin stared into Celegorm's eye, and after a short silence he answered with determination. “I will find something.”


	2. Beyond fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lords of Himlad have been driven away from their lands, the troops coming from Angband overwhelming their forces in the Pass of Aglon and forcing them to retreat and to flee. With their troops, they followed the Marches of Doriath, and settled in Dimbar for a few hours.

In Sirion too, the waters were black and red, blood and ashes coming from Ard-Galen, flowing down the valley; Nothing less than a warning, the ostentatious parade of death - and in the air, a lingering poison seemed to float above the land. The trees were sick, the flowers had disappeared and the northern wind carried with it the screams of the dead.  
Through the shadows of the night, Curufinwë followed the river to the North, squeezing his legs to encourage his horse, keeping a gentle hold on the reins. The animal was nervous but Curufin was not, and alone with his steed, he walked on. Around him was a silence which seemed too heavy, thick, and although the Elda could not see anyone, an odd feeling was slowly crawling through his core. It would have been tempting to ignore it, and to ride breathlessly to Tol-Sirion, but the flames of the war had not taken everything from him. Not his wisdom, not his sanity, and surely not his cautiousness.

Curufin had left his brother, his son and their people in Brithiach, in the shadows of the ford where, hopefully, they would be safe. For a while at least. As expected, the Haladin had refused to open their borders to the Fëanorian host, and in the name of diplomacy, Curufin had respected their choice. The mortals were free, but they remained faithful to Thingol, and would not take the risk to welcome so many Ñoldor in Brethil, fearing that their generosity could appear as a provocation to the Enemy. Until now, they had kept the orcs away from the Crossings of Teiglin, and their warriors were posted on the northern borders of the woods, welcoming any threatening host with blades and arrows. They would not allow the war to pass their borders.

Clad in his bitterness, Curufinwë was cursing aloud, calling Thingol a coward and a deserter, and around him, only the echo was replying. The Ñoldo was wounded in his vanity, in his heart, in his mind, wounded by the war, by loss, by his own fears, and dragging his own damaged frame to Minas Tirith was but another stain upon his pride. But he wouldn't flee. Not again. 

The wound left by the blade of his flight was still burning, and although Curufinwë tried to convince himself of the wisdom of his decision, he couldn't prevent shame from dripping through his mind. One toxic drop after another, the poison of his guilt and fears was slowly soaking his sanity and it was cruelly burning in his veins. He wasn't allowed to hesitate anymore, and his people's safety had been his priority, but he had left the battlefield, he had called for retreat in the heart of the battle, leaving his brothers behind. What would be said about him? What sort of humiliation would he have to face afterwards? Had his decision condemned his brothers, and given the Enemy an advantage which he hadn't forseen yet?

The questions and fears were numerous, but Curufinwë knew too well that he shouldn't let them invade him now. He had a mission, and beyond his own dread, his followers were waiting. A few more hours, a few more days, and hopefully he would be able to think about it with a rested mind, his insight cleared from the clouds of agony.  
His horse was still tensed, and despite the gentle determination of the Ñoldo's legs, the animal stopped, refusing to take any more step. From where he was, Curufin could see the towers of Minith Tirith; He could reach the island before dawn, but the horse's behaviour wasn't meaningless, and Curufin knew it. With a few whispers, he tried to soothe the steed, but beneath him he felt the animal quake. It wasn't a good sign, but the Fëanorion wouldn't turn back yet.

As still as his mount, Curufin looked northwards, beyond the towers of Minas Tirith, and after a few long minutes, he saw them. From the North, the Enemy's troops were heading to the island. The black army was carrying the stench of death, and accompanied by dark clouds and a blinding smoke, they walked quickly. Orcs, wargs, werewolves, trolls; an awful painting, a dance macabre which Curufin's sharp sight could witness despite the distance and the clouds, and leading them, a tall, powerful silhouette in black plating.

Tol Sirion was about to fall.

The reality of it was gushing in his mind, and through his horror Curufin was already imagining of the island infested by the Enemy's poison. Turning southward, he encouraged his horse and the animal responded, galloping breathlessly along the riverbank, obviously glad to leave this cursed place behind.

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“Tol Sirion is under attack.”  


Curufinwë hadn't dismounted yet, but the words had fallen hastily from his lips as soon as he had seen his brother. The same horror he had felt a few hours before, he could see it now in Tyelkormo's eyes as he stared at him. First, it had been surprise, the surprise probably to see him return so soon, only a day and night after he had left them, and then confusion, due to the look on Curufinwë's face, and finally this horror, kindled by Curufinwë's words and the tragedy it foreshadowed. Celegorm was speechless, but through his silence his brother could already feel his rage.  


"I saw them, Turco, last night." Curufinwë dismounted and gave the reins to one of their kinsmen. "Even if Felagund is there, they will not be able to hold the island.”  


“How many are they?” Tyelkormo finally asked, dread and anger bubbling with each word.  


“A few thousands. Wisdom enjoined me not to get too close to count them.” Sarcasm - Curufin's best ally when he was trying to hide his emotions - was covering his voice, but Celegorm didn't seem to pay attention to his brother's caustic tone, preferring to focus quietly on the information. “When I saw them, they had already crossed the Fen of Serech. They are slower than I am, but they must have reached the island a few hours ago.”

The Fëanorion had ridden all night, and a part of the morning, encouraging his horse to carry him, forcing his own body to resist exhaustion, exhaling his dread and his dismay. But it was already too late. None would stand between Minas Tirith and the Enemy's shadows.  


“We cannot stay there and let it happen.” Celegorm's word were imbued with determination, and although Curufinwë would not admit, it was exactly the response he had expected. A confirmation, an approval from his brother, the few words which would break the last wall that stood between his determination and his fears. “We must attack the Enemy's troops where they do not expect us, Curvo.“  


It would be a decisive risk. Their warriors were still suffering, the horses weren't at their best and their hopes were little. But the two brothers didn't need to talk more to understand each other. They would redeem themselves. They would show the world that the lords of Himlad weren't cravens, they would prove that the sons of Fëanor do not run away. And if the battle was already lost, at least they wouldn't have to carry their shame any longer.  


Curufinwë replied with a nod, but before he could say anything else, he saw his son run to him, consternation upon his face. “Father? What are you doing here ? Were you not supposed to--”  


“Tol Sirion is under attack.” Curufinwë repeated dryly. “Minas Tirith needs our help, more than we need its help.”  


The determination and strength in Curufinwë's words seemed to affect Celebrimbor who, despite his dismay, said nothing. Instead he stared at his father, and as Curufinwë looked back at him, he wondered what his son could be looking for in his face. Encouragement? Fear? Or simply the strength to accept the upcoming battle as a new dreadful reality?  


“I will fight beside you, father.” Celebrimbor finally said with a quick bow of his head, and in this simple sentence, in these words, Curufin found the last strengths he had been lacking. His smile was soft but grateful when he rested his hand on his son's shoulder, but he didn't speak. There was no need for words.  


“Curvo, you will talk to our riders.”  


Curufinwë welcomed his brother’s suggestion as another reality. Of course, he would speak to them; just like his father, he would wear the robes of the orator and summoned strength and courage, he would kindle the fire in their hearts and lead them to the battlefield.  


“Not only to our riders, but to the men of Brithiach too. If I can convince some of them to follow us, their help I shall not refuse.” The hearts and minds of the mortals weren’t like the Ñoldor's, and Curufin knew he would have to adapt his speech to his audience, making it tangible and relevant to Elves and Men. He was ready, and for once, he was not afraid.

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“Fear. We have all tasted it, smelled it, experienced it too many times, and in too many ways. We know fear.”  


The audience was listening, quiet and attentive, and from where he stood Curufin could see their tiredness as much as their anxiety. But he didn't let it unsettle him, and slowly he continued.  


"I still see it in your eyes, and I feel it when I watch you, my friends, when I ask you to fight, and lead you into another swamp. But fear shall not defeat us. Fear is not a plague, and through the darkness of war, we can turn it into a weapon. Our weapon, most powerful and unexpected than any.” He paused, only to witness the confusion upon their faces, and the smirk on Celegorm's lips. His brother knew.  


“Tame your fear. Accept it and welcome it. Fear is a new arrow in your quiver and it stands right beside your rage; let them mingle, and through their union a new light shall appear. The light which burns within you, each one of you, and which shall lead us to victory.”  


Already, Curufin could see new sparks in their eyes, and as he talked, he covered his words with power, summoning images and forcing them to slip through their minds. Images of Dagor Aglareb, of victory and hope, but also the images which would set their anger aflame; the painting of Himlad, ravaged by the enemy, of their friends, taken and slaughtered by the orcs, and through these phantasmagorias, hope was still burning. The balance was subtle, delicate, and Curufinwë knew he had to be careful. He was pulling the strings, one after another, through words, using his voice as a bow, each word as an arrow, and his inner strength as a lever.  


“The Enemy too knows fear, and he only needs to be reminded of its taste. But the Enemy is blind, and behind his doors he hides his dismay. His mastery is a mirage, for he will never accept fear, nor shall he welcome it, and insidiously it will creep through his walls and burn him from inside.  
Let us show him, my friends! Let us show the Black Foe that his designs are doomed to fail, for we shall not stumble, we shall not fall and let them burn us! We feed on fear, and any dreadful sight can only make us stronger. Let us use his own weapon better than he would ever do, and prove him that the people of Beleriand will not bow before his threats!  
My people, my friends, shall we let the Black Foe step upon us? Shall we let him steal our hopes, our lands and our blood? Haladin, shall you let him bleed and ruin Felegund's island? The Lord of the Caves, your friend, has always been beside you. Shall you let the Enemy maim him and pillage his lands? Or shall we fight, together? Shall we protect what is dear to us, and give the Black Foe a new reason to tremble upon his throne?”  


His voice had grown louder, covered by the strength of his own will, and his last words had been acclaimed by roaring and hopeful war-cries. Their riders had been the first to react, and already most of them were shivering with the adrenaline of the upcoming battle. But among the mortals, only a few had shown their enthusiasm; Curufinwë knew the greatest part of them would remain in Brithiach, but at least, they were not alone.

As he walked to his brother, Huan ran up to him, barking enthusiastically, his eyes burning with his eagerness. The hound was thirsty for orkish blood, and Curufinwë could hear it in his groans. Celegorm welcomed his brother with another smirk, and rested an approving hand on his shoulder, but Curufinwë could not see Celebrimbor. He had furtively met his gaze during the speech, and hoped that his words would blow away the alarm which seemed to have been lingering in his son's heart.  


He was about to ask his brother, when he felt a presence behind him. Curufin didn't turn immediately, and he waited silently for the visitor to declare himself. “Nice speech, Lord Curufin.”  


He instantly recognized the O so particular doriathrin accent, the delicate tone used by Thingol's people, and after a bitter smirk, Curufin turned to face the stranger.  


"Beleg Cúthalion, chief of the marchwardens of Doriath and captain of King Elu Thingol. I was sent to Brithiach to help the Haladin protect their land against the invasion from the North. I usually fight on the Marches of my realm, but the tidings we received from the North in the beginning of the winter were... alarming, to say the least. As a consequence, the king preferred to position one of his battalion in Brethil.”  


Curufin said nothing, observing the Sindarin captain silently and listening cautiously to every word.  


"Your presence in the neighbourhood was unexpected, but it didn't remain unnoticed; You walked through our Marches less than a week ago and I already had tidings of it, like everybody else in this part of Beleriand. You and your people are lucky to be alive, my lords, but if I were you, I would be discreet. My king advises you to leave, and to keep the uproar of war away from his realm and from the Girdle.”  


Celegorm burst into laughter, loud and scornful laughter which echoed around them for a few seconds. “And what other useless advice does you king prepare for us, chief of the marchwadens?” Celegorm barked through his hilarity. “What sort of threat is he devising for the sons of Fëanáro.”  


Beleg didn't reply, but Curufin saw in his eyes a flash of disdain, and he took advantage of his silent scorn to speak. “Cúthalion , uh? Yes, I have heard of you and of your marchwanders. I was actually expecting to meet you on the Marches, and my dismay was deep when I realized that your king would let us cross them without trouble.”  


“My king is not cruel.” Beleg replied, calmly, with an amused and yet sharp smile on his lips. “He does not like you, nor your kin, and he has seen through your lies the doom which lies upon you and the darkness of your hearts. But his own heart is filled with indulgence, and thus his benevolence forced him to allow you to walk through the Marches. Contrary to you, my king does not kill in vain, nor would he doom you and your people to death."  


Beleg's speech was followed by another of Celegorm's laughter, and Curufin himself couldn't prevent a snicker. "Such kindness.” He said, a bitter amusement covering his words. “Is it not ironical from a king who actually refuses to fight the Enemy beside us, and who let the Ñoldor be slaughtered while he passively enjoys the beauty of his garden?”  


There were sombre clouds in Beleg's eyes now, but the marchwarden's voice was still calm when he replied. "King Thingol only seeks the protection of his lands and people, but I will not justify his choices here. You already know the reasons behind his actions.”  


“Cowardice.” Celegorm murmured, loud enough for Beleg to hear him.  


“Tsk tsk. No insult, brother.” The caustic tone in Curufin's voice was growing heavier with each new sentence, and his smirk sharpened slowly. “After all, we should be grateful, should we not? I suppose Elwë is now waiting for us to thank him and bow before him, clad in our humility.”  


“My king only expects you to leave.” Beleg replied sharply. “And if I heard correctly, that is your plan, and it rejoices me greatly.”  


Curufin's features turned cold again, and so did his voice, a freezing rage burning in his core. “In case your king did not realise yet, we are at war. Moerbin are dying in the North, Mortals and Elves.”  


“It was expected.” Beleg's tone was matching Curufinwë's, cold as steel. “But 'tis not our war. My king's only wish is to keep his realm and his people safe from the darkness your kin has kindled.”  


Before Beleg could finish his sentence, Curufinwë's fists were clenching, along with his jaw, and he felt his brother's hand upon his arm, firm and comforting. «I Moriquendëva quettar úvar naitya mendëlme, toronya.” Celegorm's words had come in a whisper, and yet, they were purposely loud enough for Beleg to hear them, and Curufin couldn't prevent the smirk which followed his brother's statement.  


“Lau, ar úvar naitya liëlme.”  


The wince which then appeared upon Beleg's face greatly satisfied Curufinwë, and on the evidence given by Celegorm's snicker, he wasn't disappointed by the Sinda's reaction either.  


It seems appropriate to remind you that your tongue lies under a ban, my lords.”  


“I could name many things which should also lie under a ban.” Turkafinwë added, his scorn dripping from his smiling lips, but Beleg obviously decided to ignore the acrid remark and to focus on Curufinwë.  


“Your speech, my lord, was full of passion and strength, of courage and determination, and for this I can but applaud.” Beleg's words, and the slight compliment which could be seen through them, brought another smirk upon Curufinwë's lips, but the Ñoldo could already guess what words would follow, and thus his smirk was all but grateful nor kind. “The Haladin have nothing to do in your battle. Their land and families they must protect, and their place is here, on the borders of their fief; not in a desperate battle for an island in the North.”  


“I thought your king an ally of Felagund.” There was irritation now, in Curufinwë's voice, although there was no reflection of it upon his face; he was still wearing a mask of disdain. “Truly, my cousin shall enjoy the attention and careful treats of Thingol, shall he live long enough to hear about them.”  


"From here, the Haladin protect the road to the South, including the road to Nargothrond. Their presence in Brethil is essential. Besides, King Felagund will live, for he is safe now.”  
Curufinwë froze, waiting for the rest, expecting a revelation about the situation, but Beleg didn't say more of it. “And he knows my king's position concerning your war.”  


Behind him, Celegorm's mood had shifted, and he was now displaying a fierce agitation which was reflected by his next words. “What do you mean he is 'safe'? What tidings did your king receive? Speak now, Thinda.”  


With a slow movement of his hand, Curufinwë bid his brother a calmer behaviour, but his eyes he kept on Beleg, who seemed truly surprised by the Fëanorion's reaction. “I thought you knew.” He began quietly, hiding with no great skill his confusion. “My king received tidings from Nargothrond before you crossed the Marches of Doriath; King Felagund was saved by Barahir and his warriors, during a disastrous assault in the Fen of Serech. He retired to Nargothrond and expects his nephew to hold what remains of his realm in the North.”  


A loud laugh, bitter and fell, left Celegorm's lips again, and Curufinwë gave the most astonished look. “One could expect it to be a terrible joke.” He said darkly, his smirk now gone and his eyes clouded by surprise.  


“If Tol Sirion falls,” Celegorm began through his laughter. “Artaresto shall be in a very good position to hold the North, shall he not?”  


“My brother is right. Tol Sirion is under attack and Orodreth does not have the forces to hold the island. He will be slain and what remains of Felagund's Northern lands will soon be invaded by the enemy's shadow. And if we do nothing, soon his shadow shall fall upon Brethil too, no matter how many men you post on the borders of the woods. Is it what you desire, O Beleg, marchwander of Doriath?”  


"Lord Curufin, your questions are but rhetorical fantasies, and despite the respect I have for your intelligence, allow me to elude them, and to keep my mind away from your toxic speeches." There was a new sharpness in Beleg's words, A sharpness which Curufinwë welcomed with a more intensive sternness, and both of them looked into each other’s eyes, silently under Celegorm's amused gaze.  


After a while, the older Fëanorion, rested his hand upon Curufinwë's shoulder and pulled him backward with a caustic chuckle. “My little brother's speeches can be incisive, but if any poison had ever been flowing through his words, 'twas a poison injected by his interlocutors.”  


In spite of himself, Curufinwë allowed his brother to pull him away, but his eyes were still on the Sinda, grave and threatening. Beleg, on the other hand, was retrieving his calm. "I came to tell you that the Haladin should not follow northward. That is all.”  


Slowly, Curufinwë opened his hands and stretched his arm in the direction of the mortal warriors whose hearts had been set aflame by his speech. They were already joining the Ñoldorin forces, swords on their belts and helmets on their heads. “Go tell them." Curufinwë smiled, and from his smile, a honeyed sarcasm was dripping. “Tell them their hope is nothing. Tell them your king forbids them to do as they wish. Tell them their fight is vain and their strength useless.”  


You twist my words, Lord Curufin.”  


“I clarify them. That is all. Only a simple question of rhetoric.” Unable to hide his frustration any longer, but unwilling to let the outburst appear in front of the Sinda, Curufinwë stepped back and turned away, his eyes scanning the crowd of warriors with the hope that he would find there the consolation his heart needed.  


The bow given by Beleg was short and obviously, more driven by a polite duty than by a sheer will to humble himself before the two Ñoldorin princes. “In the name of King Thingol I will talk to the Men, and give them his words and wise advice. Then I will leave you, my lords, and hope that you will not linger on these lands any longer.”  


When he stepped away, Beleg was still displaying his resentment and frustration, but the two brothers didn't stop him, nor did they find necessary to give any other response.  


“I know it would be unwise to stop him, and yet... ” Trailing off, Celegorm snorted loudly, bearing his teeth as if Beleg could still feel the threat.  


There was a deep irritation burning within Curufinwë, and through his veins its flames were running; but wisdom had not deserted his mind, and through his anger he could still see the necessity of a few compromises. “Let him deliver his message to the Haladin, and let us hope that Thingol's words will not put out the embers I kindled in their hearts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ”I Moriquendëva quettar úvar naitya mendëlme, toronya": "The dark Elf's words shall not put our will to shame, brother mine."
> 
> “Lau, ar úvar naitya liëlme.”: "No indeed, and it shall not put our people to shame."
> 
> \--  
> Last update : Sept, 03, 2017


	3. Facing defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another fight, another flight.
> 
> Last update: Sept.03 2017

”The island is lost!”  


Through the drops of dark blood which were covering his face and his eyes, Curufinwë heard the cry. The voice was unfamiliar but the Ñoldo couldn't hear any hesitation in it. With a few precise movements of his sword, Curufinwë slew the few orcs which were standing around him, and he looked toward Tol-Sirion; Orodreth was on the bridge, obviously trying to make his way through the enemy's troops, and beside him, a warrior was blowing a horn, calling for retreat.

Frustration burnt anew within Curufinwë's guts, and already the acrid taste of defeat was covering his tongue. Another flight, another loss. After Beleg's speech, many Haladin had finally refused to follow the Fëanorions, and the Ñoldorin host had reached Tol-Sirion, two days later, with no more than their riders and few dozens of Men from Brethil. When they had arrived, the island was already surrounded, besieged by bloodthirsty creatures, but the Ñoldorin riders hadn't hesitated and with all the might of their rage they had rode forth into the fay, scattering death among the Enemy's troops. It hadn't been enough, and after a night of bloodshed, their enemies were still blocking the way between the Fëanorian host and the bridge that led to Minas Tirith, besieging the island with trolls and catapults, slaying those who tried to escape from the citadel.  


"Father, the horn!”  


Curufin turned his head to look at his son, his face painted with dark blood as he took his sword off the chest of a massive creature. ” Did you not hear it, father? Artaresto is ordering the retreat!”

Surrounded by dismay and chaos, Curufinwë quickly scanned the battlefield until he found Celegorm, who was carelessly sticking a spear into a werewolf's back and caring not for the splashing of blood. The two brothers' gazes met, long enough to let Curufinwë understand that they had the same plan, and a few seconds later Celegorm was blowing his own horn.  


“Father... ?”  


“We will distract the enemy's troops long enough to allow Artaresto to make his way through their lines and to escape.” It was hard to accept, but it was the only thing to do. Already the dark wizard's power was growing heavier, and the werewolves, always more numerous, were responding to his call. Ignoring his bitterness and focusing on the rage of battle, Curufinwë cried a few orders and soon after, he was leading his riders to the southern flank of the enemy's troops, forcing the dark creatures to move northward and to free the bridge.  
With Huan at his side, Celegorm and his men were riding from the east, and for a moment the core of the Enemy's army was encircled by the Fëanorians riders. It didn't last, but the tactics had been successful enough for Orodreth and his men to cross the bridge. 

Now, the Noldorin troops were scattered by the arrival of orcs mounted on wargs, followed by more werewolves and a cloud darker than the night. It seemed to swallow everything; the orcs, the Fëanorian host, and the island itself, and during a few seconds they were all blind.  


"The Abhorred has arrived!” Cried a voice, but Curufinwë didn't stop, and through the darkness he kept on fighting, despite the madness of his mount which he still tried to calm in the chaos of the moment. The cloud passed by them. It stood upon the island, and as soon as he could see again, Curufinwë looked for his son. Celebrimbor was still fighting too, but his horse had thrown him down; like many of their warriors, he was desperately swinging his sword, successfully keeping the enemies away from him. The orcs had been distraught by the cloud too, and they seemed to dread it too.  


“Tyelperinquar!” Curufin cried as he rode to him, slaying all those who dared approach his son. “Run southward! Join Artaresto's guards and stay with them!”  


“I stay with you, father.' Before Curufin could react, his son was climbing on his father's horse and sat right behind him. ”I said I would fight with you, and I shall fight with you.” Curufin turned his head, and the look he saw in Celebrimbor's eyes sufficed to make him accept his son's fierce determination.

In the meanwhile, high flames had started to burst in Minas Tirith; the island had been taken, and the enemy was burning all that remained of the Ñoldorin presence. The battle was lost, and the fight was vain now, useless. Staying here would sentenced more of their riders, and there was no hope anymore for Tol-Sirion.  


“I call the retreat!” It was Celegorm, who was hastily passing them by on his horse. “We move southward and join Artaresto!”  


Curufinwë wanted to stop him; He couldn't accept another defeat, and he knew his brother was feeling the same, but he also knew that they had already lost. They had lost long before the battle had begun. They all knew it, and yet the taste of this defeat was not less bitter.  


Celegorm's horn echoed again, longer this time, and the sound of this call was becoming so painfully familiar that Curufinwë couldn't prevent the frustrated cry that left his lips as he heard it. With Celebrimbor behind him, he headed southward, making his own way through the flow of orcs, the father and the son using their swords to clear the path, and behind them, their warriors followed with the same rage.

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When they finally reached Orodreth, Minas Tirith was in flames behind them, and on the top of the highest tower, a dark silhouette was standing, giving orders in a language that Curufinwë didn't want to recognize. Even there, a few miles away from the island, they could hear the mighty, terrifying voice of the Sorcerer and feel the cold of the darkness which was invading Tol-Sirion.  


"Who is he?” Celebrimbor asked in a whisper, his head turned toward the island. There was fear in his voice, and dismay.  


"In all probability, Moringotho's lieutenant. Thauron. The werewolves are under his command, along with the bats. Most powerful, most loyal and most hated of the Black Foe's servants." Curufinwë's voice was stern as he replied, and with a frown he stopped his horse next to Celegorm's, a few feet away from Orodreth. They were safe, for the few creatures which had tried to follow them had been slain in their fruitless attempt by the bravest of their warriors.  


Black was the blood which covered Orodreth's blond strands, and on his face, gratefulness and misery were merging into an odd expression. Silent, he stared at the Fëanorions, and Curufinwë could read disbelief in his eyes, along with gratitude. "Your arrival was unexpected, sons of Fëanáro, but salutary.” He said after a long while. “You saved us, and I will be forever grateful.”  


Celegorm gave his brother a look which Curufinwë knew too well, and which usually meant that he wanted his brother to talk. The youngest of the brothers took his time, and as he pondered his own words he felt his son shift behind him. Celebrimbor was dismounting, for one of their warriors was offering him his horse, and alone, Curufinwë rode toward Orodreth.

“Despite the gaps which dwell between our houses, and the wounds inflicted in the past, we still are allied against the Black Foe. Who, among the Ñoldor, would leave their allies in the hands of the Enemy?”  


Orodreth welcomed the speech with a sad smile and a nod, and still clad in his misery, he observed the Fëanorian troops. “Himlad is lost, is it not? Your warriors need to rest, and so do you, lords.”  


“Temporarily lost.” Celegorm corrected him from afar. “We do need to rest, but when it will be done, we shall ride forth to Aglon and regain what was taken.”  


Now Curufinwë could see Orodreth's features turned into a more surprised look, although there was obviously some kind of understanding behind his astonishment. “I see.” He said. “I will ride and lead my warriors to Nargothrond now; would you decide to follow us, you and your riders would be most welcome. As my saviours - and as the king’s cousins.”  


The offer was tempting. After all, it was the first reason which had driven them to Tol-Sirion; they needed a shelter. But the distance between Felagund's southern lands and Himlad was more important, and it seemed to Curufinwë that it would only drive them away from vengeance, and cut off their hope to regain Aglon. The Ñoldo gave a slow, stern bow, and he return to his brother whose eyes had not left Orodreth's face.  


"Tyelkormo." Curufinwë whispered as he stopped his horse beside his brother's. "Do you have any argument against it.”  


Intense and stern was Celegorm's face, and through the blood which stained it his own blood as much as the blood of his enemies, Curufinwë could feel his brother's hesitation, as deep as his own. “We need a shelter. A safe place to lick our wounds.” Celegorm simply stated, keeping his eyes on Orotdreth, as if he was looking for a solution in his features. "But hiding in the southern realms does not seem to be the most appropriate move right now. We would only flee further.”  


“Do you have any better idea?” Frustration wasn't leaving Curufin's voice, and although he kept it low and quiet, he knew that his son, who was standing behind Celgorm, could hear him, and from the look upon his face, Curufin could only guess that the situation was embarrassing him. Celebrimbor said nothing for a while, but his father knew it would not last, and he took his son's silence as an opportunity to speak his mind. “Nothing can force us to stay in Nargothrond for too long; a few weeks should be enough to heal the wounded men and gain strength.”  


“And humble ourselves before Felagund?” Celegorm snorted. “Never. ”  


"It will not happen; We saved Artaresto. Felagund owe us his life. He will not welcome us as beggars, but as the rescuers of his nephew.”  


Celegorm had started to shake his head before his brother could finish his sentence, displaying his disapproval and a suspicion Curufin which could understand. "Felagund might be famous for his wisdom and generosity, but what do we know of his intentions?” Asked Celegorm. “By stepping into his realm, we cut ourselves from our brothers and we give him a certain power upon us.”  


Celegorm was right. Their relationship with the house of Finarfin had never been idyllic, and all that had happened since they had left Tirion hadn't helped at all. The lords of Himlad acknowledged the strength and the bravery of their cousins who had held Finrod’s northern lands before death took them, but giving their whole trust to Felagund would be more complicated. And although they respected Finrod's lordship, he was only king in his kingdom, and the Fëanorions wouldn't blindly kneel nor follow him and his commands. “There shall be no humiliation, brother.” Curufin stated firmly. 'No betrayal either. This I swear. I might not fully trust him, but he still is our cousin, and he now has a debt.”  


“I agree with my father.” Celegorm turned on his horse to observe his nephew, who was looking at him with a sternness which was too much like Curufinwë's. “Uncle, your distrust is understandable, but Nargothrond is our only chance now. And just like my father I think King Felagund would welcome us with the honors we deserve. We did not save Minas Tirith, but we saved his nephew. Think about it, if I were in peril and if he saved my life, would you not grant him any consideration and honor?”  


Speechless, Celegorm seemed to ponder Celebrimbor's words, words which had been welcomed by Curufinwë with a proud and confident smile.  


“You are almost as good as your father when it comes to play with people's sentiments, Tyelperinquar.” The fair Ñoldo finally replied grumpily, although his expression betrayed a slight admiration, or at least, amusement. “Be careful with this talent, ‘tis a dangerous one.”  


Celebrimbor glanced at his father, and Curufinwë tried, vainly, to catch the meaning of this look. Pride? distrust? Or amusement? The Fëanorion had no clue, but his brother seemed now convinced, and that was what mattered most.  


No more than a few weeks.” Celegorm repeated sternly, and the nod he gave was quick and severe.

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The road to Nargothrond was hardly restful, and from the Crossing of Teiglin, which the company passed with no loss – for the men of Brethil were still fiercely defending their borders, to Amon Rudh, the road was long and dangerous for a host of Ñoldor, injured, desperate and with no great resources save their inner strength. They met a few hosts of orcs, heading southward, but the valor of the soldiers from Himald was famous, and Celegorm's horn, which he had received in his youth from Oromë's Maiar, sufficed to summon fear in their enemies' hearts.

Still they rode quickly, leaving the North and the shadows of Angband, and discovering the vast plains of the southern parts of Beleriand, and the warmer weather, devoid of the tumultuous winds the Fëanorions had known in Himlad. Celegorm spoke little, save to Canyorë and to his brother, and Curufinwë knew how careful they would have to be with their cousin. With Orodreth, he discoursed on the Caves, the capacity of the realm, the possible threats, the supplies, and Finrod's general strategy, but Felagund's nephew, despite his gratefulness, remained unclear in his replies as if suspicion was still holding his heart, as if the Fëanorions could still appear as a danger. And Curufinwë didn't insist. The last thing he needed now, was to stir up his suspicion; they needed allies, and they needed to put the past aside – a truce, even if it would last a few weeks only, was a necessity. Finrod, it seemed, would be a wiser interlocutor, and Curufinwë hoped that his cousin would accede to their request, despite his grief and regrets. After all, they had all lost a lot during the recent war, and if they didn't stick together now, everything would be forever lost; or so Curufinwë thought, and beyond bitterness and pain, he hoped that his cousin would share his opinion.  


“I did not present you my condolences.” Curufinwë said as he rode beside Orodreth, but he kept his eyes on the plain before him, decency and restraint forbidding him to look at the youngest Ñoldo. "I know the grief summoned by the death of a father. I am sorry for your loss.”  


“My father - your cousin - died while protecting his kin and his land, he died honorably.” Orodreth replied slowly. “He could seem wrathful at times, but he was a good person and an admirable lord. His kin respected him and loved him dearly.”  


Orodreth seemed thoughtful when we talked, and his voice was but the reflection of a pain Curufinwë knew too well. Curufinwë also knew there was no word which would help this wound heal. “There were disagreements and discord between us, but I recognize courage and strength when I see them, and your father possessed these two qualities.”  


“Courage... Strength.” Orodreth repeated the words slowly, like a chant, and on his face Curufinwë could see the shadow of an amused bitterness, and the young lord continued “Two important qualities indeed, but my father was more than strength and courage, and had you made the effort to know him, you would not speak so lightly of him.” The previous shadow had faded, and it was now replaced by a cold face, Orodreth's piercing eyes staring at Curufinwë sternly. “You do not speak of his wisdom, nor of his wit and his generous heart, and yet my father Angaráto was not devoid of any of these qualities. But I am not surprise, lord Curufin, for you have always despised my kin, my father and my uncles, like your father did.”  


Silent, Curufinwë was listening to the accusations, which weren't, for some of them, wrong; and yet there was still some misconceptions in Orodreth's speech; misconceptions which the Fëanorion wouldn't deny yet. Orodreth's grief was still too fresh, and he was in no position to argue.  


“You can talk to me about grief – for you surely know grief, this I do not doubt.” Orodreth continued, and in his dawning anger Curufinwë saw Angrod's wrath. “But I forbid you to talk of my father and his nature, about which you know nothing. I am grateful to you for saving my life, but I do not forget the injuries you and your family have inflicted upon us, and one life saved shall not make amends for the thousands of lives lost on the Helcaraxë, of the lives your hands took in Alqualondë, among my grandmother's kin. My uncle shall not let you die, you and your warriors, but do not expect us to forget the past so easily, Lord Curufin. And your speeches, as beautiful and empathetic as they seem to be, shall not be enough to redeem your most grievous deeds.”  


After one last cold glance, Orodreth urged his horse and left Curufinwë's side to join his own warriors, leaders of the host on these perilous paths. Without a word, Curufinwë let him go, and pondered the the lecture he had just received. An empathetic speech it had been, indeed, and a bold diplomatic move; but his words and condolences had not been deprived of honesty. Although he had no great love for Angrod, Curufinwë didn't despise him, and for many decades he had acknowledged the tenacity of his two cousins who had valiantly protected Dorthonion.  


“What did you expect?” Asked Celegorm who had just joined his little brother's side, whilst Curufinwë's mind was busy with his thoughts. “Did you really think he would have welcomed your condolences, burst into tears and hold you tightly, with your hand patting his head and your handkerchief on his wet cheeks?”  


“I expected him to accept my words as a token of our good intents. Angaráto and Ambarato's deaths are ill-omens. They were not our friends, but they were our allies, and although we did not weep for them, I would prefer to have them alive.” Curufinwë was bitter, and quiet was his voice as he spoke to his brother; But it was a precaution that Celegorm seemed to ignore, and he replied with a loud snort and a louder sarcasm.  


“Thank you, brother, for the explanation, but I do not need you to recognize our allies among the people of Beleriand. Our cousins will be missed, that is a fact, but if you, or anyone ask me about them, my reply will be the same: I did not like them. Which is actually a good thing because I do not think they liked me either.”  


“I can only advise you to keep your sentiments quiet when we will be in Nargothrond, brother.” Curufinwë hissed, tensed now, this very tension increased by Celegorm's mood. “I am not sure Felagund would appreciate your honesty on this matter.”  


“I will not pretend to like them.” The statement was irrevocable, and Curufinwë knew he would not convince his brother to change his mind, not on this day at least.  


“Very well, Tyelkormo.” He replied with heavy sigh. “Then it is probably better if you say nothing at all, and if you let me talk to our cousin.”  


“You shall not keep me quiet, little brother.” And with a provoking smirk, Celegorm turned, leading his horse in the direction of Huan who was scouting cautiously around the Ñoldorin host.

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The moon was high in the sky when Celebrimbor joined his father, and for a long while, both of them rode silently side by side, discovering for the first time the green stretch that surrounded Narog. Here and there were a few hills, crowned by trees, and among the trees, Curufinwë knew it, stood the watching towers built by Finrod's scouts.

Curufin and his son hadn't exchanged a lot of words since the beginning of the war; Recommendations, orders, assistance when it was required, and a few glances only had nurtured their companionship during this dangerous journey, since they had left Himlad; there was definitely something which was aching in Curufin's core, something which he couldn't explain yet but which prevented him from looking at his son. It wasn't reserve, nor a random shyness, no. It was bitterer, darker, somehow deeper, and although Curufin had no word to describe this feeling, it was keeping him quiet.

“I look forward to discover Nargothrond.” Celebrimbor finally said, breaking the heavy silence, which was weighting their shoulders. “And for safety. Do you think the king will welcome us, father?”  


“If I did not hope so, I would not lead you to his realm.” Came Curufinwë's answer, stern and dark, thoughtful and distant. “We have some good arguments to defend our cause.”  


“Indeed.”  


Curufinwë noticed the strange tone of his son's short reply, which seemed almost sad to his ears, but he didn't make any comment. And Celebrimbor continued. “He is said to be a wise and kind leader, and you... I know you well enough to trust your power of conviction.” Now there was a small smile on his son's face, sad too, like his voice, and Curufinwë couldn't help but smile back at him.  


“We are not in a position of strength, Tyelperinquar, and despite the lives we saved, they still have all the reasons to resent us.” The reminder seemed necessary, if only to protect Celebrimbor from a hope which could be broken at any time. Orodreth’s sudden harshness had been enough of a lesson. “We must not forget our position, Tyelperinquar, nor should we forget to whom we are addressing. Felagund might be my cousin, but we are now on his land, where he is king of a great folk. And our past will not serve us here.” Curufinwë easily caught the sight of the questioning look upon his son's face, as if Celebrimbor was confronted with an enigma, but his gaze didn't linger on the youthful face. “Does my speech trouble you, son?” He asked soon after, looking before him again to avoid another embarrassing gaze.  


"Father... Are you alright? You seem different. Your speech is different from what you have used me to.”  


The question took him aback, and hastily Curufinwë swallowed back the bitter knot which had reached the back of his throat. That was a remark he had feared, unwilling to display before his son the struggle of his emotions, and the inner fight which was ravaging his mind. “Someone is coming. Stay here, with Huan.”  


Just in time indeed, did Curufinwë notice the arrival of a small company of Elves, and quickly he urged his horse to join Orodreth who was already talking with the new comers. Purposely, he avoided to meet Celebrimbor's gaze, preferring to keep himself away from the puzzled look which he was certain to receive, and instead he focused on his next speech.

There were no more than fifteen scouts in front of them, of various origins, sent to patrol in the lands in Felagund's name. All of them bowed to Orodreth, their king's nephew, but to the Fëanorion their reactions were more confused. Their presence had not been unexpected; many things had been said about their kin, and even after more than four hundred years in Beleriand, the sons of Fëanor couldn't always benefit from their reputation.  


"They are our guests on these lands.” Orodreth began, raising his hand as a sign of peace and calm. “Lord Curufin and lord Celegorm, helped by their people, saved our lives whilst we were escaping from Minas Tirith, which has been taken by the enemy.”  


“We desire to meet your king, our cousin.” Curufinwë added as Celegorm arrived. "We come in peace, seeking for a shelter after the loss of our land."  


Celegorm said nothing but the long stare he gave his brother was too meaningful to be missed; they were not here to beg anyone, and if the two brothers agreed on the matter, the eldest seemed to think that a quiet reminder would be necessary. It was not, for Curufinwë and turkafinwë had in common this heavy pride, and none of them was ready to kneel before their cousin.  


“Your message will be immediately brought to the king.” Said one of the scouts, a tall maiden with blue eyes and black ribbons in her grey hair, and as she talked, two other Elves left the host with an impressive hastiness, and a more impressive furtivity. “And we shall escort you, your people, and my Lord Orodreth, to the Halls of the King Finrod Felagund. Do follow me, my lords.”


	4. A challenging reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come for Celegorm and Curufin to convince Finrod and his people to offer them a shelter, and to accept their offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: Sept. 03 2017

A cold silence was floating in the Caves when the Ñoldorin lords, accompanied by Orodreth and followed by Huan penetrated Felagund's domain. The place was impressive, to say the least; corridors and rooms dug in the earth, stairs of stones which seemed to lead them always deeper, and in the distance, soft voices were singing quietly.

The Ñoldorin warriors had watched their lords leave, and patiently they would be waiting for them outside, sorrowfully, for dread and weariness were over them. Scattered through the woods which surrounded the impressive gates of Nargothrond, they would not be allowed to step into the caves yet, and all would anxiously wait for their lords to return from the meeting with the king.

As they walked through the corridors, led by Felagund's guards, Curufinwë kept his eyes in front of him, avoiding getting distracted by the beauty of the place, nor by the temptation to tarry here, in this safe and warm and vast realm, where his people would be able to heal and to dwell in peace for a while. Already the smell of food and mead was floating in the air, and the sweet light of the lamps seemed to invite them to rest and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere of Nargothrond. But Curufinwë had to remain focused, for he would talk to the king, and it was he who would have to be convincing enough to help their cause. Beside him, Celebrimbor was agape, fascinated by the architecture of the underground realm, and Celegorm was still wearing a grim mask upon his fair and determined features. All were silent.

After a few minutes, Curufinwë realized that the songs in the distance, which he had mistaken for some sort of welcoming melodies, were in fact mourning poems. The realm was grieving, and now Curufinwë expected to find his cousin in the same state.

“It could have been worse.” Whispered Celegorm, as if he had sensed his brother's thoughts. “They could be singing war songs and poems about revenge. At least we shall not be disturbed by any sort of accusation.”

“Do not speak so hastily, brother.” Curufinwë replied. “We know nothing of our cousin's intents, and I will not make any assumption ere I can speak to him.” Celegorm snorted, and still clad in silence, Celebrimbor gave his father a worried look, to which Curufinwë replied with a soft smile. “Yet, I doubt that his intents are ill.” He continued, willing to soothe his son's troubles. “We are not here as enemies of the realm.”

Celebrimbor and Celegorm nodded and remained silent until they reached the throne room. Except for the three of them, Orodreth and the two guards who were leading them, the corridors were all empty, and this dark emptiness, where the mournful songs were still echoing, gave the place an odd atmosphere. And if Curufinwë didn't mind the deep and close appearance of the caves (and neither did Celebrimbor), Celegorm was already stirring beside him, revealing a discomfort and unease which Curufinwë instantly connected to some sort of claustrophobia.

Finally, they reached two massive doors; the guards opened them and stood on each side, waiting for Orodreth and the three guests to step into the room. From the threshold, Curufinwë instantly understood they had reached the throne room, and it was full of gracious figures, all clad in delicate garments and many a jewel, gemstone and gold. At regular intervals stood fountains sculpted directly in the walls, and from the cracks in the stone, a clear and fresh water was flowing peacefully, filling the room with its sweet melody. Lamps were on the walls, but not enough to completely illuminate the cave, and here and there, instead of the dim light, a sweet obscurity floated. It didn't take long before the Ñoldor’s eyes get used to the dark, but already Curufinwë's eyesight had been caught by the most ostentatious figure in the room; the king himself, his cousin, whom he hadn't seen for the past centuries. Sitting in a throne carved in the stone, Arafinwë's first son was covered with silk and gold, bracelets covering his pale arms, rings and gems around slender fingers, and around his neck, the Nauglamír, which Curufin had longed to see.

The dwarves had surpassed themselves when they had crafted the masterpieces which were covering Felagund's tall frame, and although the king's face was grievous, the sparks and the beauty of his garments shone with such an intensity that it gave his sadness the most inappropriate charm, along with a radiance worthy of Tirion's most important ceremonies. It was misplaced, and perfectly improper, judged Curufinwë, who found in this display the most tasteless way to grieve and to welcome the victims of war. But there was an odd fascination too, for the king's finery had been made by hands which Curufin knew not, and which displayed a knowledge which he craved.

Orodreth walked to the throne, and all the eyes of the court were on him, some sad and benevolent, some still burning with anger and frustration. Many steps behind him, the Fëanorians lords followed until Curufinwë intimated his brother and his son to stop ere they reached the royal dais - rocks decorated by the richness of the hands of Nargothrond's best sculptors. Orodreth bowed, the king stood up and the court held its breath. Even the mourning song had stopped, leaving the room in a heavy silence, save for the song of the waters which danced in the fountains. Grave was Felagund's face, and Curufinwë couldn't help wondering if he had ever seen him so serious before. In any case, Curufinwë thought that grief didn't suit his cousin’s delicate face, and behind the luxury of his finery, the tired and anguished features seemed more than inappropriate. Or the jewels were; it was hard to say.

No word was exchanged between Orodreth and his uncle, but everybody in the room knew that many things had been shared through their silence, looks and thoughts, a painful heartbreak about a chance to survive for a purpose which was not clear yet. Thus, Felagund rested a gentle hand on his nephew's head, comforting and apologetic, and Orodreth accepted it with a sad smile. Nothing more happened, much to the Fëanorions’ relief. Curufinwë indeed, didn't feel at ease in front of this display of affection, among a family which was not totally his, and amid a folk which was so different from their followers. This reunion between the Arafinwëan king and his nephew was not something they should have witnessed, and Curufinwë could not understand why the audience and their presence had been requested for such an intimate meeting.

“No, indeed, you have not your place here.” Curufinwë tensed and looked at the king, whose quiet and unexpected words had rolled melodiously through the room. “And yet here you are, welcomed by my will in my kingdom, beyond all reason and wisdom which the past has taught me.”

Celegorm squinted at his brother, but Curufinwë ignored him and with a cold and imperious face, he stepped toward the dais. Careless he had been, and forgetful of his cousin's talent to sneak through people's minds and thoughts, to steal the information he needed and to grasp every movement of a soul through an infuriating gift of foresight. The Fëanoarion would have to be more careful, and keep his own thoughts locked behind the walls of his will. A wall which he had already started to reinforce.

Propriety demanded him to bow before the king, and although Curufinwë had no will to do so, he nonetheless gave a quick nod, midway between a slight bow and a silent approval. It would be enough for now, and since Felagund replied to his nod with a smile – a dim one – Curufin judged his own behavior appropriate regarding the conflicting circumstances. Surely Felagund hadn't expected much more from his cousins.

Many eyes were on him, and all the court seemed to be waiting for his reply, but Curufinwë took his time, looking into his cousin's face as to emphasize the speech which he was about to speak. He had thought about it since they had met Felagund's scouts, and through secret paths, and thick woods, at the feet of the hills and the hidden towers, he had prepared them, the words which would hopefully bring his cousin to accept a truce, and to welcome their people in his caves. When they had crossed the Narog where Ginglith joined it, Curufinwë had felt ready, and as the scouts had led them amid the farms of Nargothrond, he had started to feel confident. But now that he could witness the depths of Felagund's grief, and observe how suspicion and mistrust floated in his eyes, his confidence was slowly fading away; he would have to use all the strings of his cunning rhetoric ere he could convince the audience of their good intents. It wasn't impossible, and challenge enticed him, but it would not be easy. Especially with this heavy reluctance to show any sign of weakness, and the impossibility to let humility overtake him. Curufinwë’s pride would not be tamed.

“The past has taught us many lessons, King Felagund.” He began, his voice resonating calmly in the room. “And none of us shall pretend to forget the lessons learned through light and joy, through pain and blood and--

“And treachery.” Finrod had deliberately cut off Curufinwë's sentence, preventing him from finishing it, and punctuating it with a word which the Fëanorion had preferred not to utter. Irritation bubbled in Curufinwë’s stomach, but he gave no sign of it, save a bitter rictus. For Curufinwë hated to be interrupted while speaking, especially when it was for his cousin an opportunity to use arguments which would surely not serve him.

After one cold glance toward Felagund's pompous frame, Curufinwë turned to face the crowd; if he could gain the people's trust and approval, Finrod's benevolence would be easier to awake. “Mistakes had been made in the past; this we cannot deny, and for our deeds we ask no redemption.” The audience was listening with interest, but among them some Ñoldor were wincing and frowning, obviously disappointed by the presence of the Fëanorions within the realm. “I am aware that the reunion made centuries ago, ere Nargothrond was built, did not convince every Ñoldo, and that resentment cannot be erased by a joyful feast and a few promises. Grudge tarries, and against the house of Fëanor many words have been spoken. But who, among you, brave people of Nargothrond, would ignore that against the Dark Foe, we are all alike; So many fëar filled with hopes and dreams of a land made free from darkness and threats and wars, so many fëar longing for victory and light, fëar filled with the anger kindled by our common enemy. Far be it from me to ignore the reasons of your mistrust, but if we do not work together for the protection of our lands, the dark lord shall have no trouble erasing us. That is why my brother and I did not turn back when we learned about the assault on Tol-Sirion. That is why our warriors reacted and fought, despite their wounds and exhaustion, to protect what remained of your king's northern lands. For we are allies in this nightmare, and if this power is given to me, I would do anything to prevent any Elda from being slain by the hand of our foe, be they from my house, or from my cousin's house.” With these last words upon his lips, Curufinwë turned toward Felagund, and stretched his hand in a sign of peace. “Let us not be devoured by old rancor, King Felagund, for we are, after all, of the house of Finwë, and our kinship shall not be forgotten.”

There was a slight wince upon Celegorm's face, a wince which informed Curufinwë about his brother’s disapproval, probably related to the last words spoken, but Celebrimbor was presenting all the signs of pride and admiration, a smile accompanied by an encouraging nod. The faces which CurufinwË could see in the room kept on displaying various sort of emotions, but some of them nodded, grave and serious, obviously giving reason to the Fëanorian lord.

“Our kinship shall not be forgotten indeed. But in this dark time, what is kinship?” Said the king with the same dim smile. “Now I have lost my brothers and my father's house grows thinner.”

“Thinner maybe.” Continued Curufinwë with a revival of confidence, and he glanced at Orodreth. “But it is not lost and shall grow again.”

Following Curufinwë's eyes, Felagund looked at his nephew and in silence they seemed to exchange a few thoughts, meanwhile the crowd started to express its approval, kindled by the hope tangled with Curufin's words.

“I am most grateful, Lord Curufin, Lord Celegorm, for the help of the House of Fëanor. You saved my nephew, and although Tol-Sirion is lost, I acknowledge your will and attempt to save it. It was unexpected, but your valiance and the help you provided for my house is deeply appreciated.”

“Is it not what allies to do for each other?” There was cunning smile now, on Curufinwë's lips, and if his voice was devoid of authority, pride was still covering it.

“Allies.” Finrod repeated softly, looking away, as if entangled in his own thoughts. But soon his eyes fell upon Curufinwë again. “Then, I suppose you expect me to forget the past and to welcome you in this realm, in the name of this alliance which you claim.”

Curufinwë quickly noticed the defiance in Finrod's voice, a defiance which the king didn't really try to hide, and the Fëanorion's smile grew wider. “No forgiveness nor oblivion is expected, king Felagund. But a peaceful agreement, at least, between our houses, could be considered.” He paused and turned again toward the crowd, taking a few steps and looking patiently at the numerous faces before him. They seemed fascinated by the discussion, and no word was spoken save a few shy whispers. “After all, have we not, my brothers and I, protected the lands which ran in the south of your own lands. Have we not reinforced the walls of Ladros and created with your brothers a fence against the eastern and southern faces of Angband? Ere your brothers were slain, we did work together for the safety of East Beleriand, for four hundred years. The flames which assaulted the North this winter devoured your lands and crept through Aglon with a fierce intensity which none could have imagined. But all these years we fought and protected, and the relations with your brothers were cordial. Allies we were, and on your own lands, king Felgund, we accepted each other's assistance. Shall you now deny these years of good entente?”

“What do you offer, Lord Curufin?” It seemed obvious now that Finrod was losing his patience, but CurufinwË doubted that anyone in the crowd could detect it. It was a faint and almost imperceptible change in Finrod's gaze, and his voice was slightly lower. The Fëanorion knew he had hit a sensitive point while talking about the king’s brothers and his lost lands, but the audience, it seemed, had be conquered by the argument.

“We have thousands of warriors waiting for a shelter. Thousand warriors who would fight for the protection of your lands if they ever receive help from you. Nargothrond would receive the protection Aglon had received during the Siege, a wall which only fire and lava could break.”

The crowd reacted, and just like Curufinwë expected, a few voices, wrapped in their awe, were expressing their approval. “Nargothrond is not easily expansible.” Said the king, unwilling to drop his guard. “How do you expect me to welcome so many people in the Caves.”

Celegorm chose this moment to step between his brother and his cousin, and ere CurufinwË could react he was standing before the king with a sharp smile. “We heard tidings of your own courage, cousin.” He began, forgetting - willingly - all the codes dictated by the royal etiquette. “Did you not ride into battle in the North, and fought valiantly against the troops of the Enemy?”

“I did.” Finrod seemed even more defiant than before, and to Celegorm he gave a look filled with a heavy distrust. “It was my duty to protect my lands, even though the cause was lost ere I arrived.”

“I daresay you did not leave Nargothrond to fight alone. Your own warriors from this very land came with you, did they not?”

“Indeed.”

Now Curufinwë could see clearly his brother's goal, and in spite of himself, he smiled. It was a smart move, and a bold one, but it was risky and without his brother, Curufinwë didn't know if he had had the boldness to make such an attempt. Surely, Finrod himself could see where the discussion was going, and he turned away from his cousins, sighing as he rubbed his fingers against his forehead. But Celegorm continued, determined to get what he wanted. “How many warriors left with you? How many, among them, came back?”

There was silence in the room, deep and gloomy. Some faces turned away, some eyes were filled with new tears, and Curufinwë, now cold as marble again, observed his cousin.

“We left with nearly thirty thousand men.” Sorrow had penetrated the room, as if slipping through the walls, summoned by Celegorm's questioning. “Less than the half of them came back, scattered; More might come back later.”

Curufinwë could imagine the massacre, terrible and heartbreaking, and the survivors, caught by the enemy or hiding between the Fen of Serech and Ered Wethrin. If they were lucky, they would have been able to reach Hithlum ere Tol-Sirion was attacked. “Now that the Pass of Sirion is under the Enemy's watch, I doubt anyone would be able to use this road to come back.” CurufinwË stated darkly, in order to emphasize the argument his brother was about to speak.

“Then, cousin, your caves are nearly empty, are they not? And your defense reduced to... nothing.”

Curufinwë noticed the way the king pinched his lips; obviously the truth was hard to admit, and to say that his cousins' help would be welcome didn't seem to please him.

_How dare you?_

Finrod's thoughts were breaking the walls of Curufinwë's mind, sneaking into it to share an offense which he didn't wish to display in public view; And the youngest Fëanorian was certain that his brother had to suffer the same intrusion. Curufinwë managed to chase him away from his mind, and he stepped between Celegorm and Finrod, resting a peaceful hand on his brother's forearm.

“What my brother said is that your troops have grown thinner, and that you might have some troubles protecting your lands with such a small number of warriors. Let us help you; when our troops will be healed from their wounds, they shall make the best protection for your realm. We all suffered from this war, and all have wounds which need to be healed. Let us not die alone. Let us keep the old resentment away, while we support each other.” The audience approved loudly, and Curufinwë's fingers tightened around Celegorm's arm.

As for Finrod, so bravely he managed to remain the patient king whom his people loved. “Our strength is now little, indeed. But my troops are valiant and well-trained, and our lands are safe.”

“For now.” Celegorm added, glancing at his brother. “But for how long? It will take a few years ere you can constitute your troops again,. What if the enemy attacks in the meanwhile?”

Orodreth, who had been quiet during the whole discussion, but whose eyes had never left the Fëanorions, finally intervened. “And for how long do you plan to stay in Nargothrond, my lords? You offer your help, but shall you not leave when you will not need the protection of the Caves anymore?”

“Everything needs to be decided.” Stated Curufin. “And I shall not make such an important decision without a long and calm discussion with you and your councilors. But until your own army grows strong again, our men can help.”

Finrod stared at the crowd, a crowd which was - Curufinwë could feel it – enthusiastic, for a new hope had been kindled by the Fëanorians' offer. But the king seemed not to share this enthusiasm, and suspicion obviously, was still holding him back. “Everything must be decided.” He repeated, glancing at Curufinwë. “And this decision I cannot make alone. I shall meet my councilors tonight, and give you an answer at dawn. In the meanwhile, you and your men can abide in Nargothrond; but not in the Caves.”

“Shall the king leave his own cousins to camp and sleep on his doorstep?” Celegorm was offended, and his voice was growing louder. But CurufinwË kept his hold on him, quietly intimating him to stay calm.

“My cousins, and my cousin's son, can stay in the guest rooms.” Finrod replied calmly, his eyes getting sharper and his words more abrupt. “Their people shall indeed camp on the hills which surround the gates of Nargothrond. There they shall enjoy the protection of the woods, and of the hill towers.”

Displeased, Celegorm shrugged his brother's hand off and after a dark glance toward the king, he turned on his heels, heading to the door. “Then, I prefer to sleep outside with my people.” He mumbled, yet loud enough for the crowd to hear him. Huan, who had been strangely silent and calm, proudly followed him.

Curufinwë was annoyed, and he would have followed his brother if the situation didn't request his presence. “What my brother wanted to say is that our people have been the most faithful during the tragedies which we faced, and we wish not to forsake them now. We shall all camp outside and meet you tomorrow, when your decision will be made.”

His speech over, Curufinwë gave a sharp bow, and lengthily his eyes scanned the crowd, silent and filled with new expectations. He had done all that he could do, and more than that since Felagund's people had witnessed the Fëanorion's loyalty toward their own people, and their determination to keep them safe. He doubted that the king could shamelessly send them away now.

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“Reminding him of his loss; a terrific idea brother, even I would not have dared.”

The lords of Himlad had joined their troops, and led by a few scouts they had dispatched the thousands of riders and horses among the hills that surrounded the Caves. It was the best way, the only way, to minimize the impact of their presence on the lands, and to not catch the attention of ill-intentioned eyes; and hiding so many Ñoldor – even in a forest land – remained an exploit, unfortunately forgotten by the lore.

Now Curufinwë had found his brother in the corner of the camp which would be theirs for the night, slightly isolated from the rest of their warriors. Curufinwë had no wish to sleep anyway, and he was determined to have with his brother a long discussion about the situation.

“I had to do something.” Replied Celegorm. “I could not let you make a fool of yourself any longer.”

“I was actually convincing his people, and it happened to be a success.”

Celegorm replied with a soft laughter, mingled with a snarl. “You were all about him, kissing his feet, sitting up and begging through rhetorical speeches.” There was disdain in the oldest brother's voice, but his eyes hadn't meet Curufinwë's yet.

“I was using and pulling the strings of diplomacy to make him go where I wanted him to go.”

“King Felagund, king Felagund, let us be your friends, let us show everyone how much we love each other.” Now Celegorm was badly mimicking his brother's voice, giving it a foolish tone and the most disgraceful diction. “A king? He? Nay, a lord maybe, but no king he is.”

“Firstly, I do not speak like this.” Curufinwë said, slightly offended. “Secondly, it is not what I said. And thirdly, I forbid you to lecture me about it, especially when you were the one talking about his courage and the way he valiantly rode into battle.”

“I was being genuine.” Celegorm took a sip of mead, from one of the many bottles graciously offered by their cousin. “His actions during the war were valiant. But you, brother, all you were doing was to try to seduce him and this foolish crowd, with a faked admiration and dishonest praises.”

Curufinwë had heard enough, and he hastily snapped the bottle away from Celegorm's hand, keeping it in his own with a frown on his forehead and a dark glint in his eyes. “I spoke for our people, and if I did not speak an absolute truth, I said what was required for their safety.” 

Celegorm gave another snarl, and shook his head in a way which made Curufin's anger stir up. 

“Listen, Tyelkormo. Felagund is dearly loved by his people, and shall we show any sort of animosity toward him, they would beg him for us to leave. But now his people have their own opinion about us, a good opinion since I proved us to be respectful. That is why the etiquette is for. Your move was risky, and luckily it succeeded, but had I not been there, you and our people would already be crossing the Narog. Homeless and hopeless”

Celegorm was listening intently to his brother, and the way he arched his eyebrows sufficed to let Curufinwë know that he had successfully brought his brother to understand. And indeed, after a short silence, and a glance toward the bottle that Curufinwë was still holding, Celegorm replied. “Perhaps. But without me you would still be begging him to help you, or to let us help him, and he would be feeding his pride with your unsuccessful attempts to seduce him.”

“I care not about what Felagund might be thinking of me; ‘tis his people that I want to seduce. And you should keep it in mind if he ever allows us to stay. We are doomed if his people begins to suspect us. There are Ñoldor and Thindar among them; both kindred have some reasons not to trust us.”

“Convince and seduce.” Celegorm said quietly, his thoughts obviously busy with the challenge to come. “I shall leave it to you; I am in no mood for such games.”

A sharp sigh left Curufinwë's lips, and after he had himself took a sip of mead, he glanced at his brother and said something which he would seldom say, to anyone. “I will need you, brother. I do need you.”

It was hard to say if Celegorm was actually touched by his brother's confession, or simply annoyed by a request which he could not ignore, but he held his brother's look for a long while, and eventually he nodded, resting a hand on Curufinwë's shoulder. “Do you think he will accept?” He asked after a moment of quiet humility.

“I am hopeful.” Curufinwë replied softly, looking away now, almost ashamed by his previous words, and carefully he gave the bottle back to his brother, who hastily grasped it and brought it to his lips. “But I would not gamble on it.”

“... Contrary to some of your people.” It was Celebrimbor, who had just sneaked behind his father and uncle. The two Fëanorions stared at him confusingly, silently asking him to say more, and with a wince Celebrimbor indulged. “The rumors run fast; everybody knows, or pretend to know, what happened in the throne room. Now there are bets among them. Some are convinced that Felagund will accept your offer, some – most of them – think we will have to leave this place ere dawn comes.”

CurufinwË welcomed the words with another sigh, and Celegorm rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well, at least Curvo, this should remind you of something you might have forgotten; Keep the trust of your own people ere you try to seduce Felagund's sheeps.”


	5. On the threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between pain and dignity, expectations and apprehensions, choices must be made, but the Fëanorions' humility is nowhere to be found.  
> And in spite of his pride, Curufin must learn to cohabit with new wounds and inner troubles. Luckily, he's not alone.

Dawn was not there yet, and red was the light that crept through the trees and caressed the hilltops, wrapping the towers with light, as Arien reached the eastern borders of Ambar. Soon the Fëanorian lords would meet their cousin and receive an answer; or they would be allowed to dwell in Nargothrond, or they would have to leave, and to cross the Narog with their mournful riders, all harmed in body and soul.

Celegorm was silent. He had been rather quiet during the night, unwilling to have the discussion which Curufinwë longed for. It was perhaps a good thing after all, for, the more CurufinwË thought about it, the less he wanted to actually talk. He was nervous, exhausted and there was this excruciating feeling within him, as if a knife, sharper than Angrist, was thrusting into his soul, taking its time as it dug into flesh, bones and feelings. The Ñoldo could not yet put a name on this pain, nor could he exactly explain why he felt like a skinned animal, wounds and nerves and guts exposed, his whole being lying open and defenseless amid a crowd of worms and raptors. It felt like a nightmare, but it was the reality of his feelings. His reality.

And yet, vulnerability couldn't be an option, and never would he allow himself to show any sign of powerlessness. And the weakness that accompanied his pain, he would bury it under the strength of his determination, under the veil of his rage, and behind the walls of his pride; they would not be defeated, and they would not let fate devour them nor stamp on them. The sons of Fëanor would stand and fight, and even through the dark mist of their doom, they would not turn back nor bow their head.

Locked in his own silence, CurufinwË was trying to analyze the torrent of emotions which was quietly pulsing through his core, but all he could think of was the words heard long ago, ere they had crossed the sea.

“...Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be; by weapon and by tourment and by grief...”

After a long look at the hilt of his sword, hanged at his side, where the star of his father's house had been carved and decorated with emeralds and diamonds, Curufinwë clenched his fist until he could feel his own nails dig into his palm. “We shall not suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens.” Like a quiet chant, he repeated his father's words, the very words which had been given as a reply to Mandos' threat. They were now like a prayer, not to Mandos nor any Vala, but to Fëanor. As if the brave words spoken centuries ago could now give him the strength he feared to lack, and to awake within him, the fire which had carried his father beyond the limits of one's fëa.

No, Curufin was no coward – he wouldn't let himself become one – and the accusing voice which had been rolling through his mind since they had lost Himlad would be destroyed. It had to be destroyed, annihilated, ere it could bring Curufinwë to trust it, and to doubt his own courage.

“Your arguments were good, and your speeches excellent.” Curufinwë was pulled away from his thoughts by the voice, his son's voice, and the gentle admiration that was floating around them. “I believe the king will accede to our request; thanks to you and your cunning words, father.”

And odd sort of pride and gratefulness covered the Fëanorion's heart, but behind them, fear tarried. If their request was denied, what would his son think? What string would disappointment pull and where would it lead them both? But his reply was short, and devoid of any hint which could have informed Celebrimbor about his father's troubles. “Thank you, my child. 'Tis important to keep hope aflame.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and with a faint smile on his lips he stepped next to his father, but Curufinwë was already looking toward the gates of Nargothrond, filled with doubts, his mind too far from his son to reach it.

“Father... you did not ask me if I slept.”

This time, CurufinwË frowned, taken aback by the surprising words and what they implied. And they implied a lot. Ere Aglon was taken, ere the battles began and their people killed or scattered, it had been CurufinwË's habit to always inquire after his son's health, and especially about his sleep. On this matter, they were alike, and both would usually spend nights and days working continuously ere they would put their mind and body at rest. It was one of the Fëanorion's worst habit, and unfortunately his son had inherited it, thus forcing his father to keep a close watch on him.

Of course, Celebrimbor was no child anymore and he was free to sleep or not, and to attend to his own business by day and night, but still, Curufinwë kept on caring and between the two of them it had become a ritual, a game. Everyday Curufinwë asked his son if he had slept, Celebrimbor welcomed the question with an amused smile and replied according to his mood; if he spoke the truth and revealed that his night had been sleepless in the name of some new creation, his father displayed curiosity and worry at the same time, repeating endlessly the lessons of common wisdom given when Celebrimbor was a child, and almost leading him to his room with a cup of tea and a few new pillows. He did not, of course, reached this extremity, but both played this game knowingly, the father lecturing his son with a calm voice and the son listening patiently to the lesson. And Celebrimbor knew it was his father's shy way to show him how much he cared.

But many sleepless nights had passed since Curufinwë had for the last time asked his son about his sleep, and it seemed now that their morning ritual had become but a memory lost with Himlad. And Curufinwë was only acknowledging it now.

“I did not have to ask.” He said, trying not to show how much the remark had troubled him. “I knew the answer.”

He witnessed a spark of disappointment in Celebrimbor's eyes, but he said no more on the matter. He knew, indeed, that his son hadn't slept more that he had; but was it not always the case? And yet, the habit, their game was gone, along with the father that Curufinwë used to be. Not only his mind had been too busy with other worries, but in truth, there was also his terrible fear to see through his son's troubles, and to let Celebrimbor discover his father's fears. On the road from Aglon to Brithiach, and from Tol-Sirion to the Narog, too many difficulties and tensions had assaulted Curufinwë’s mind and heart, and even if he still cared – more than ever – a deep apprehension stood behind his concern. Talking could seem pointless, but it was also becoming terrifying. For, what truth would reveal a sleepless night after a bloodshed? And what wound would be uncovered by an exchange, as innocent as it could be? CurufinwË had many strengths, and great could be his power while facing an enemy; but face to face with someone he deeply loved and cared for, he could easily become subject to a deep unease, and to an embarrassment which he could rarely overtake, especially when other troubles were already weighing down his heart.

“What about you, father?” Celebrimbor's eyes, eager for a reply and an exchange, were on him. “Did you sleep?”

He was expecting an answer. This Curufin knew. His son was expecting their ritual to continue beyond the flames of war and the sufferings of their loss, but it was beyond the Fëanorion's strength. Perhaps would he be more willing to play later, if ever his cousin could give them a chance, but in that moment, to pretend that nothing had changed would be more than a lie, it would be, to Curufinwë, a treachery. Hence his silent reply as he shook his head slowly, and his mind slipped away again, returning to his troubles and own questionings. Celebrimbor's discouragement was almost tangible, and beside him, Curufinwë felt his son's presence growing dim, as if the younger Ñoldo was himself slipping away from his father’s reach.

 

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They met Finrod at the front gates at dawn, and under the Ñoldor's feet the thick and soft grass seemed like a good omen. Only the two Fëanorian lords were there, and Celebrimbor, while their faithful followers slept or waited anxiously on the hillsides.

Finrod came to them clad in a magnificent silver robe, his golden hair cascading upon his shoulders and decorating the garments with more majesty, whereas sapphires and opals shone around his fingers. The crown, he wore beautifully, and discreetly Curufinwë gazed at it in wonder, recognizing the dwarwen crafts and stones. Felagund was followed by Orodreth, a few councilors whom Curufinwë didn't know, and by the chief of the scouts, the maiden they had met when they had first stepped on Felagund's land.

The moment was awkward. The king did look tired, much to Curufinwë's surprise, and yet he showed no sign of hesitation nor annoyance. He looked, as per usual, proud and filled with the dignity of his kin. The Fëanorions too would not show any sign of anxiety, and they too desired to give their cousin an impression of majesty and dignity, as if they had not come to Nargothrond as beggars asking for help. No, they were no beggars, and would not let anyone think they were. Warriors they were, lords and princes, and they had come to Orodreth's rescue. Now, all they wanted was an alliance. And they desired no pity.

The king stared and them and they all gave a short and sharp bow of their head, but in their eyes anticipation was shining along with apprehension, and no word they spoke for a long time.

“Our fight is alike.” Began the king, taking but one step toward his cousins. “And so are our desires and priorities; to protect our people, to offer them a safe land and as much light as we can gather in one place, to keep their hopes and courage aflame, and to not act against our promises.”

Curufinwë gave another stern nod, but Celegorm chose not to move nor to give away any sort of reaction.

“You were right, cousins.” The king continued. “We are allies, and in spite of the old rancor, I shall not forget our kinship nor our common fight against the enemy. Your warriors are renowned, your strategic skills are to be counted among the most impressive, and Nargothrond’s defense has been weakened.”

Hope burnt again in Curufinwë's heart, and if he didn't smile nor displayed any sort of joy, he was silently relaxing. But neither he, nor Celegorm said a word, and they let patiently the king talk until a real answer was given. Following the codes dictated by the etiquette, Finrod talked at length about kinship and battles, about old and future alliances, about ancient deeds and promises. And hopes. Celegorm was growing impatient, Curufinwë could feel it, and he glanced at his brother with the frail hope that the simple look would keep him quiet a bit longer. Luckily it worked, and as Celegorm caught his brother's gaze with his own, he let out a quiet sigh and kept his lips locked. There were but a few chances Finrod hadn't noticed anything, but the king made no remark.

Finally, Felagund stopped talking, and stood right in front of his cousins, proud, with on his lips, a cunning smile, discreet and yet filled with a mystery which Curufinwë couldn't decipher.

“We accept your offer.” Said he after a short silence. “You shall abide this realm, with your warriors, and protect it for an allocated time – which has to be decided. But that is not urgent. We shall discuss it at length later, when all the rest will be ordered. Let us put aside the rancor of the past, and work together for the wealth and protection of this land.

A wave of relief, followed by an awkward gratefulness overtook Curufinwë's heart, and although his face was still impassible and his words calm, there was a new light in his eyes. “Thank you, king Felagund. Your generosity shall not be forgotten.” He said, giving another bow, a longer one. Behind him, Celebrimbor was smiling shamelessly, but Curufiwën couldn't see him, nor could Celegorm who seemed astonished by his cousin's acceptance. Speechless was the hunter, and yet there was hope now, in the Fëanorions' souls.

 

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The chambers that had been given to them were, to say the least, comfortable. Five large rooms, including a study and a large bathroom had been granted, all of them filled with luxurious furniture, wardrobes, fountains and lamps. “It only lacked jewels.” thought Curufinwë, who remembered very well the finery which adorned his cousin. Never mind, Curufin would make his own, for he had already agreed with the craftsmen of the realm to get a free access to the workshops for his son and himself.

Moving in hadn't been an easy business; with awe, their people had entered the Caves and discovered their new dwelling place, and respectfully they had bowed before the king. Hastily the entire realm had started to work on their installation, opening new rooms and preparing new beds, biding their healers to come and look at the wounded men, taking the horses to the stables in the most graceful confusion. By the end of the day, everyone had settled down, some people squeezed in little rooms, others joining the farms of the realm, where wider houses, hidden by the trees, could easily welcome many people. The realm was vast, but a few accommodations were still needed.

It would be temporary, and the Fëanorian lords had promised their cousin that they would help if any construction was necessary. It was true that most of their treasures had disappeared in the flames of the war, but luckily all had not been in Himlad, and Curufinwë's skills were great enough to cover the eventual expenditures. After all, Felagund's generosity couldn't only be paid with a few promises of protection, and ere their work and help could become truly valuable, they would have to find a way to repay the king's reception.

But Curufinwë wasn't worried. Messages would be sent to Himring, Thargelion and to the Gap as soon as possible, and among their people there was not a single man who couldn't work. Mighty warriors they were, but also smiths, farmers, hunters, weavers, hawk and horse trainers, and Curufinwë already knew that this unexpected migration of workers could only increase Nargothrond's wealth and enrich the king. In this agreement, Finrod had nothing to lose.

“I can barely realize it yet.” It was Celegorm who was stepping out the bath chamber, his hair still wet but his wounds and body clean and soothed. He let out a deep sigh and let himself fall back on a delicate sofa. “Nargothrond opened its gates to us.”

“Let not bewilderment tarry, brother.” Curufinwë replied with an amused smile as he explored the wardrobe offered by the king. “It is time to seriously think about our future, and to act upon it. And do not sprawl on the velvet while you are still wet; unless you actually plan to ruin it.”

Celegorm raised an eyebrow and glanced at the sofa beneath him. “I am making it mine by instilling my smell into it.”

Curufinwë couldn't prevent a chuckle, and after a murmur which compared his brother to an actual hound, he took the robes and other attires out of the closet and threw them upon the bed. “Need I remind you that I have chosen this room to be mine?  And that I want no dog smell upon the furniture.”

“Do you plan to keep me outside ? To forbid me the access of my little brother's chamber?”

“I will if I must.” Replied Curufinwë with the most serious tone, his fingers brushing against the silk of the robes.

“And how am I supposed to look after you if I cannot come hither as much as I want?” This time, Celegorm sat up, and even though they were both playing, the fake indignation in his eyes was more than credible.

But Curufin didn't reply, and already a wince could be seen upon his features. His mind had left the game, and it was now totally absorbed by the garments in front of him. “How dare he?” he snarled, half muttering the words.

“What is it, brother mine?” Celegorm asked, leaving the sofa. “Is there a coded message upon these robes which I would have missed?”

“I am not wearing these.” And with another snarl, Curufinwë stepped away from the bed, heading to the mirror to have a look at himself. “And if our cousin thinks that I will ever wear any of these colors, he is mistaken.”

Already Celegorm was rummaging through the pile of clothes, selecting a few shirts and belts, leaving the robes creased on the floor. “Obviously Nargothrond's fashion is nothing like what we are used to.” He sounded disappointed too. “The weather here is warmer, even in winter. They barely need fur and heavy fabric.”

“Do you know what I see in their fashion, brother?” Curufinwë asked as he observed his reflection and the poor look of his outfits and hair  – for he hadn't bathe yet – in the mirror. “Their fashion is the exact reflection of what can be seen in Doriath. Same fabrics, same colors, same cuts.”

“You probably mean 'what could be seen in Doriath four thousand years ago' , do you not ?” Added Celegorm with the most sarcastic tone. “Indeed, I recognize the fabrics and looks of the few messengers from Doriath that we met at that time. And unless they have stuck to their ancient patterns, I see no great differences between Nargothrond's favorite robes and Doriath's old trend.”

“Our cousin has always been so original.” Sarcasm was dripping from Curufinwë’s sharp smirk, and with the same incisiveness, Celegorm gave into this mocking game.

“You know, Curvo, I suspect him to actually try to become Thingol.”

“Thingol should have fostered him.”

“Did he not?”

Curufin turned to share with his brother a cunning and amused glance, and both were smiling sharply after this exchange of sarcasms. They could not help it, and even now, even bathed in Felagund's generosity, they would keep on with their caustic remarks. Remarks which weren't born out of hatred nor animosity, but out of a suspicion of old, and a resentment which they couldn't totally forget. And if they both had to be sincere, they would confess that they actually enjoyed this game of mockery and remarks against their cousin – would he deserve them or not. They had no excuse, and they knew it. But like children they could go on with their games for hours, taking pleasure in their causticity and the sharp innuendos of their speeches. Disdain and pride had to be nurtured, and that was how they fed their own.

A knock on the door stopped their game, and nonchalantly Curufinwë walked to it to discover on the threshold a young Sinda, richly clothed.

“The king asks for your presence at the feast which will be given tomorrow afternoon.” Said he, bowing respectfully, though his eyes had glanced at the robes on the floor, and Curufinwë didn't miss the flicker of panic and confusion which had appeared upon his face. But the young elf continued, as calmly as he could. “He would also like to have a private meeting with you, my lords, in order to agree on a few points and to hear the tidings you bring from the North. Preferably tonight.”

“Tell the king that his cousins shall come and meet him, but we first have a few wounds to clean, and in mind and body we need to rest. Tidings and decisions can wait until tomorrow, and we shall meet him ere noon and the beginning of the feast.”

With a sharp nod, Curufinwë closed the door, waiting neither for a reply nor for disagreement.

“I thought you would be impatient to meet him.” Remarked Celegorm, who had observed the scene quietly. “After all, many things must be discussed.”

“That is true, brother.” Gloomy was Curufinwë's voice now, and somewhat sharper than it had been a few minutes before. But he continued as he reached the door that led to the bathroom, ready to offer himself a long moment of peace and silence. “But first, I need to find something I can wear and which will not make me look like a fool escaping from Doriath. Plus, we do not want Felagund to think that he can give us orders, do we?”


	6. A bitter sip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin and Celegorm finally meet King Felagund privately, hoping to agree with him about their roles and places in the kingdom, but their expectations won't exactly be fulfilled.

“I know these cups.” Celegorm was holding one of the beautiful cups, decorated with golden filigrees and delicately shaped in the most typical Ñoldorin manner, and a slight frown was on his brow as he stared at it.

“Of course, you know them.” Curufinwë replied grumpily, taking the cup from his brother's hands and putting it down on the table. “This set was one of those that could be seen in Tirion's court. It seems that our cousin did not leave Aman empty-handed.”

“I suppose he needed a souvenir.” There was a caustic smile on Celegorm's face, but his eyes hadn't left the cup, and beside him Curufinwë sighed with disdain.

They were in one of the rooms the king used for the official (and less official) meetings; a rather small room in comparison to the impressive throne room and the royal hall, but it was tastefully decorated, and more than comfortable. One heavy table had been placed in the center, but all around, under the lamps and the tapestries, were large armchairs and sofas on which laid warm and colorful plaids. Matching their colors, the rugs on the floor gave the entire room a very cozy atmosphere.

“How dare he make us wait?” Curufin wawës irritated. Although he was usually patient, he took Felagund’s behavior, his delay, as an insult, an obvious lack of respect accompanied by a hidden message from the king to the Fëanorions, maybe to remind them of their place, maybe worse. And even though Curufinwë knew it would do no good to think about it, he couldn't get rid of the intrusive thoughts. Whatever his cousin's intents were, the Fëanorion was displeased and he would make sure to let Finrod know about it.

“He is shy, perhaps, and fears a direct confrontation with us.” Considered Celegorm as he sat down in one of the chairs, making himself rather comfortable as was his habit.

“Do not be foolish, brother.” Curufinwë's irritation was growing with each new second, and Celegorm's attempts to amuse him happened to be vain. 

In fact, Curufinwë barely noticed them. “We both know that Felagund is all but shy and I--”

He was interrupted in the middle of his sentence by the sound of footsteps in the corridor; someone was coming, and Curufinwë gave his brother a meaningful look, quietly enjoining him to wait and see if this person was the king.

And the king was indeed coming.

The room was silent when Finrod stepped in, closing the door behind him and leaving the guards outside. 'Then he really wants a private meeting' thought Curufinwë, rather impressed and no less curious. The king first looked at Celegorm, who was comfortably resting in his chair, and quite surprisingly, he smiled to him, benevolent and amused. But Celegorm didn't smile back, which seemed to amuse the king even more. After a quick glance to Curufinwë, Finrod enjoined him to sit down with an elegant movement of his hand, and he himself chose the largest chair, right in front of his cousins.

Finrod looked confident and at ease; if he was impressed by his cousins' presence and the seriousness of their features, he displayed no sign of it. On the contrary, the king seemed in a rather good mood, and one could have easily thought that he was glad to spend a moment in his cousins' company. And that is why mistrust quickly started to bubble in Curufinwë's heart, for he could only take this apparent casualness for the deepest hypocrisy; a pretty veil beyond which something else, something menacing was waiting.

“May you forgive my delay, cousins.” Finrod began, ignoring Curufinwë's sharp look and pouring himself a cup of wine. “As you must know, duties and responsibilities are too often overwhelming when one has to take care of a land... I see you did not touch the wine in my absence - may I offer you a glass?”

Celegorm nodded, almost too eagerly according to Curufinwë's expectations, but the youngest Fëanorion remained impassive.

“Nothing for you, Curufinwë? I thought you to be a connoisseur and lover of great vintages, and this one is particularly tasteful.”

Still cold and silent, Curufinwë bit back the harsh words which were rolling in his mind. It was impossible for him to consider such a lightness after the horrors they had all been through, and the current circumstances didn't invite him to rejoice either. He saw in the king's behavior no more than foolishness and thoughtlessness, and it was slowly but certainly getting on his nerves.

“Not even a drop, Curufinwë? A pity, really...”

“You miss something, brother!” Added Celegorm who was now eagerly sipping the wine. “It is actually good – though not as good as the wine from Thargelion.”

Curufinwë replied to his brother's commentary with an icy, angry look, which meant no more than 'Stop', but Celegorm didn't seem to catch the message and he poured himself another glass.

“I would rather keep my mind clear.” Curufinwë finally said, glancing disapprovingly at his brother.

“And I would really want you to try the wine, Curufinwë.” The tone of Finrod's voice was surprisingly peremptory, and his eyes, which he kept on Curufinwë's face, were shining with a severity he had seldom witnessed in his cousin before. “I want you to try it now.”

Confused and slightly impressed, Curufinwë gave a chuckle and glanced again at his brother, who had suddenly stopped drinking. “May I ask why, cousin?” Curufinwë asked, his smirk imbued with suspicion. “Would there be anything else than wine in these cups...? We barely arrived here, you could at least wait a few weeks before trying to poison us.”

Celegorm was now staring at his cup with the deepest suspicion and a wince on his face, and lost in his dismay, Tyelkormo let his eyes find Finrod's face, when suddenly, the kind laughed. It was a discreet, polite laughter, but when it vanished, a new seriousness was covering his features.

“Please Curufinwë, try the wine.”

Curufinwë and Finrod stared at each other for a long while, silently, while Celegorm still didn't know what do with his own glass. At last, he sniffed it lengthily, shrugged, and swallowed the rest of the wine. “If it is poisoned, it would already be too late anyway.” He said with another shrug as Curufinwë looked at him. “And it would be too bad to waste it, would it not, cousin?” The grin Celegorm gave to the king was not only caustic, but also slightly menacing.

“If I wanted you dead,” The king started calmly. “I would have indeed waited a few more weeks. And I would definitely not use poison.”

“Why? Is poison too violent for your delicate customs?” Asked Celegorm.

“Too violent perhaps, but surely hypocritical enough.” Added Curufinwë.

“Too easy.” The king replied with a new smile, his gaze travelling from Celegorm to CurufinwË with an infuriating calm. “Now could you please try the wine, Curufinwë?”

If it was a foolish game, Curufinwë wasn't amused, and he was even less interested in the prospect of indulging the king's wish. But it seemed that their meeting wouldn't get any further if he stood his ground, and he had other things to do than to tarry face to face with his cousin, arguing over a glass of wine. Finally, he picked up the cup and brought it to his lips, smelling it first, slowly, before sipping it carefully. It was actually good, but the taste seemed spoiled by the whole situation.

“So, how do you find it, cousin?” 

Purposely, the nod Curufin gave wasn't as enthusiastic as Finrod had probably expected, and when he replied, his voice was deprived of any sort of emotion. “Not too bad, indeed.”

“I am glad.” Finrod stood up, placing both of his hands in front of him, rubbing them together thoughtfully. “For it comes from Dorthonion. My brothers sent me a few bottles of this vintage last summer. I still have a few of them, I wish not too share them with just anyone.”

The Fëonorions froze and Curufin wondered if Finrod's determination to make him drink the wine was no more than a dishonest way to remind them of the tragedy which had overwhelmed the Ñoldor and the northern realms during the previous weeks, like a hammer of guilt and shame striking their heads and their tongue as the images of the flames that ravaged Dorthonion flew through their mind. Curufinwë kept his eyes on the red of the wine; it looked almost black in the cup, black as the clouds over Aglon, and red as the lava which devoured the northern lands.

“What are you trying to do, Findaráto?” Curufinwë finally asked, his gaze falling on the king again. “What are you implying?”

“I am nothing like you, Curufinwë, I do not imply anything. When I speak, I say exactly what I mean.” Finrod stated calmly, though Curufinwë couldn't help noticing the dismissive glint in his eyes, and he silently grinded his teeth. “This wine is precious to me for the reasons you surely understand. And you are not just anyone; Thus, I share this wine with you.”

_I think he is making fun of us._

The thought was coming from Celegorm, who, behind his glass, was staring intensely at the king.

It was never wise to use ósanwe in Finrod's presence, for the king's talent for it was beyond any sort of ordinariness. And indeed, Finrod caught the thought even before it reached Curufinwë's mind. “I am making fun of no one.” Said he, not losing his smile.

“Then why are you talking to us as if we were idiots?” Obviously Celegorm was bitter; whether it was precisely about Finrod's behavior, or about the reminder of the war, Curufinwë knew not, but he could taste the same irritation.

“I believe you misunderstand me, Tyelkormo. Or you think what you desire to think without taking into account my every word.”

Finrod's calmness was really intolerable, and if Celegorm was shamelessly reacting to it, Curufinwë was holding back, keeping under control his frustration. With a careful movement of his hands, he enjoined his brother to mimic him, and to keep quiet his harshness. To the order, Celegorm replied with a deep, loud growl and he laid back into his chair, nervous fingers rubbing his chin angrily. 

“What exactly do you want?” Curufinwë asked again, standing up, his calm features matching Finrod's, although there was no smile on the Fëanorion's lips.

“I remember you talk about a sort of truce, Curufinwë... You said we were allies, did you not?” A few steps only were lying between Curufinwë and Finrod, but none of them dared to move, even though they were both carried by their determination and their will to break each other's mask. “What happened to these beautiful promises, cousin? I refuse to believe they were only empty words used into order to serve your purpose; I refuse to believe you would actually go this far.”

A slight smirk appeared on the Fëanorion's lips as his understanding of the situation became clearer. Finrod was testing them. Once again, a challenge had arisen between them, and now it was Curufinwë's turn to play his part. “Findaráto, you should know that a son of Fëanáro never speaks with empty words; our promises shall always be honored.”

Beside him, Celegorm was listening with a sharp expression upon his face, but apparently he had decided to let the speaking to his brother and to react only if necessary. The words started to flow through Curufinwë's lips with a brilliant intensity, and the melody of his voice was deliciously honeyed, and yet imbued with a slight scorn which, obviously, Finrod would not be able to miss. “My brother and I expect to keep you as an ally, and to establish this truce between our houses. It is a question of necessity, of survival... and of victory. I do believe that your people and your lands represent a great force and a mighty rampart against the enemy, even now, even after the loss and the chaos which have weakened you.” His hands moving slowly in front of him while he spoke, Curufinwë kept an eye on the king and on his reactions to his words, adapting his speech to each new hint, to each new glint in his cousin's eyes or wince upon his lips. “Our message was clear from the beginning, and our wishes are still the same. Whereas you should admit that your methods are rather unusual, and that they can only put us in the most uncomfortable position.”

“My methods?” Finrod let out another melodious laughter.  “I was simply offering my cousins to try a delicious wine.”

“You need not to be reminded of our own loss, cousin, do you?” Now, Curufinwë's voice was cold, sharp, and it cut off Finrod's laughter like a cold blade against the warmth of a throat.

“No, indeed.” With a new seriousness, and in his eyes a slight spark of grief which, Curufinwë thought, Finrod was trying to hide, the king walked to his cousin, finally breaking the invisible wall that seemed to be standing between them. “That is why this moment of sharing seemed important to me; for we have all suffered from the horrors of the winter.”

Curufinwë was furious, and although his face betrayed not this anger, the need to slap his cousin was excruciating. He felt manipulated, as if Finrod had played with them since the moment he had stepped into the room, using this meaningless wine to put them in a situation of suspicion and grief, to force them to reveal their own wounds which they had not finished licking. His voice was still colder than ice when he replied, but the light in his eyes was proud. “We need not to share our sufferings with you, Findaráto. You shall have the strength of our warriors and the skills of our people to repay for the shelter you offer us, and that is all.”

“No family sharing, hm? Pity....” It was hard to say if Finrod's words were genuine in their new lightness or if he was actually mocking his cousins, and this confusion was driving Curufinwë mad, but the king kept on smiling, and as he turned away from his cousins, he continued. “What a fool I was to expect a strengthening of the family bonds.”

“Indeed.” Replied Celegorm as he left his chair. “We are here as allies, not as family.”

“And you would so easily erase our kinship? This very kinship you highlighted during your speeches to my people.” Finrod replied with a glint of surprise in his eyes, thought it was impossible to know if this surprise was honest or fake. “Cousins, if the cracks of the past can be mended and the injuries soothed, the past itself, and all it contains, cannot be ignored nor forgotten. Our grandfather—”

”We do not wish to hear you talk about King Finwë.” Curufinwë stated before Finrod could finish his sentence. He was boiling from inside, his indignation slowly taking the best of him, but he knew he wouldn't let the mask fall before his cousin. Curufinwë would show no weakness and if he had indulged for the wine, it would not happen again; it was determinant if they wanted to have a bit of peace and respect during the months and years to come. “I thought you had the decency and the wisdom to organize a meeting in order to let us talk about our future position within your realm, and to establish a few conditions. Obviously, I was wrong,  _King Finrod_.”

“Conditions?” This time, Finrod seemed to be really surprised, but he ignored the insult. “Pray tell me, Curufinwë, what sort of conditions are you thinking about?”

“Our position beside your councilors, the independence of our lordship and authority upon our people, which, as I believe, have not became your subjects the moment they stepped into your caves, our decision-making power; all these details a wise king should think about.”

“All these decisions a wise king should not take on his own.” Replied Finrod. “All will be discussed in good time, but you should know that nothing will be decided without the agreement of my councilors, captains and liegemen. Today's meeting was but a friendly and unofficial invitation to my cousins, my kin, far from the political decisions which shall be taken later. I am sorry you did not consider it this way.”

“We are not here to play your games, Findaráto.” Said Celegorm, and clad in a deep gloom he headed to the door, already preparing himself to leave the room. Finrod didn't reply to the provocation, and after a glance toward Celegorm, his eyes returned to Curufinwë.

“Convoke us when you will feel ready to take these political decisions; meanwhile, do not make us waste our time.” Added the youngest Fëanorion, relieved to see the end of this meeting approach.

A smile on his lips, Finrod gave a slow nod. He still seemed amused, which was still infuriating to Curufinwë, but the Fëanorion kept on holding back his irritation, and without any further word he followed his brother.

And before he closed the door behind him, Curufinwë could hear the king's last words, words which didn't help him calm his exasperation. “We shall meet again at the feast this evening, cousins. And hopefully you shall have a more pleasant composure to display.”  


	7. When hope must be saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New tidings are coming from the North, dreadful and alarming, while Curufin still struggles with doubts, unable to understand the person he has become, unable to know how to behave with his son.

They said that Nargothrond hadn't seen such a merry and rich feast for a few decades. They said that many a year had passed since the last time the Great Hall of the Caves had shone so brightly, the tables so full of mead in crystal and golden cups, the plates filled with games, fruits and some sweet specialties which were not to be found in the Northern and Eastern parts of Beleriand. And quite surprisingly, the House of Fëanor and their people had been highly-touted, their strength and courage praised by Felagund's speech. A speech which Curufinwë had found too sympathetic to be genuine, and despite his pride and the pleasure which he could get from such praises, he was still suspicious. Felagund knew the secret strings of diplomacy as well as he did, and he too knew which string to pull to reach one's heart. And obviously, all Finrod sought was to reach the core of the Fëanorions’ people, to touch their sensibility and butter up their pride. A simple question of seduction, of power.

“Let them enjoy the king's compliments.” Celegorm whispered to his brother after the ovation of the crowd. “They deserve a bit of relief and praise. Our people's courage shall not be forgotten nor ignored.

“Indeed.”

“And they are smart enough not to get caught by Felagund’s seductive web. A feast and some kind words shall not be enough to entice them.”

“I wonder...”

There was a grim look on Curufinwë's face, and in his eyes the sparks of mistrust were glimmering. Only the silver robe that he was wearing was lighting up his dark appearance, but had he been asked about his attires, his comments would have been no less dismissive. He had chosen the only garments, among all those offered by the king, which was not differing too much from his personal tastes, but still it didn't match the fashion Curufinwë was used to and which enjoyed, nor did it fit him perfectly. He felt uncomfortable, and if the situation itself hadn't been so delicate, Curufinwë would have probably drown his unease into the wine. But his presence, his attention were required, and he was determined to stay on guard, to watch the king and his people, and to keep the latter safe from the lies which could potentially occur among the crowd.

His son too he wished to watch, and although he rightly forced himself not to follow every movement Celebrimbor would make, nor to harken every word he would speak, the careful father would not let his eyes away from him for too long. And he was impressed to see how easily Celebrimbor was fitting into this new place; comfortable and affable, the young lord was meeting Felagund's advisors and the lords of Nargothrond, displaying politeness and respect to each one of them. In Curufinwë's heart, pride was mingling with a deep apprehension, and although he couldn't really explain why, the insidious serpent of envy was slowly creeping into his mind.  He tried to dislodge the unpleasant feeling, and eventually, he forgot about it. For a while.

But Curufinë's careful watch wasn't only focusing on Celebrimbor, and many a time he observed his cousin, the king, and the other powerful and rich lords of Nargothrond whom he had not personally met yet. Still, Curufinwë could recognize a fewfaces which he hadn't seen since the exile, other faces that he had quickly passed by in Mithrim ere Aglon was fortified, and among these faces, none had a smile for him, and the gazes were still bitter. So bitter that he wondered for how long Felagund – or Orodreth – had had to fight to convince them, to accept the presence of the Fëanorions in the caverns; and for how long he would have to fight to convince them of their honesty and wisdom, of their strength and the necessity of their presence.

“Father, you do not have to look so cold and severe to impress them nor to gain their respect.” Celebrimbor was standing next to his father, two cups in his hands and a fragile smile on his lips, but the light in his eyes grew brighter as he stretched out his arm, offering one of the golden cups to Curufinwë. And as he grasped it, looking into his son's face, he strangely remembered the hope which used to throb in his heart ere the war took everything from them, and of the hopes that still tarried in Celebrimbor, in his wit and his skills. With a slow nod, he brought the cup to his lips and enjoyed the palatable sweetness of the mead, but his heart was still covered with questions and worries.

“The night is warm and merry, we are safe, and that is all that matter at the moment. Why do you not celebrate, father?”

“I see nothing to celebrate.”

“What about life itself?”

The clouds of his forebodings grew darker, and Curufinwë stared into his cup, as if an answer could be found in there. But Celebrimbor's eyes were still on him, and ere he could get absorbed by the hues of the mead, he was taken away from the meanders of his thoughts, awaken by his son's comments. “Alright, you do not have to celebrate life if that feels unappropriated to you… But would you, at least, talk to me?”

“What is there to say, my child?” As he said those words, Curufin realized how much his voice had softened, as if the very core of his fëa had been abated by Celebrimbor's words and presence.

“Everything, father.”

Forcing his eyes to rest on Celebrimbor, Curufinwë let out a quiet sigh and he nodded again, though he was barely conscious of his own movements. “Canyorë left yesterday, and were sent with him a few volunteers to Himring, to bring news to your uncle, and to bring back tidings from the east... If Himring has not fallen in the meanwhile.”

“Himring cannot fall.” There was a confidence and a determination in Celebrimbor' short sentence which sounded pleasantly to Curufinwë's ears, and he found himself comforted by the certainty of his son. “But when I said we needed to talk, I was not speaking of war, nor of your diplomatic plans. These are matters that I shall learn in good times.”

Now Curufinwë could see what was in his son's mind, and as he guessed where Celebrimbor wished to bring the conversation, the Fëanorion turned away. “We shall speak later, privately.”

“When? Father, I know how you dislike my insistence, but I miss you. All I ask for is--”

“I know what you ask for.” If Curufinwë’s voice was cold, it was only to hide how deeply Celebrimbor's last confession had touched him, and how deeply he hated himself for not being able to give his son what he wanted. “I simply do not wish to speak here.”

“And tomorrow you will find another excuse.” With these last words, Celebrimbor stepped away, leaving the room and the lights of the Great Hall. Dismayed, Curufinwë watched him, despising his own behavior although he could not bring himself to change. He had to strengthen his own heart, and vainly he was waiting for his wounds to heal, hoping that eventually, he would find the strength to face himself, to face the man he was becoming; he had lost Himald and Aglon, he had failed his people and his brothers' expectations, and as a fallen lord, he could not look at himself anymore. Shame was too fresh, too present, too invading, and behind his grim mask, it was merging with disappointment. Curufinwë had thought himself capable of many great deeds, he had thought himself capable to live up to what were – to what he thought were – Fëanor's expectations. And he had failed, losing his lands, causing the death of his people, forcing the rest to wander and to face other horrors. And the thought of this misery, a misery he hadn't been able to keep away from them, was unbearable. Curufinwë used to be seen as the spitting image of his father, but he had proved that he was not, he had proved that he had not even the quarter of his strength. And while Fëanor had followed and fought the fleeing enemies to the Gates of Angband, CurufinwË had fled from the battlefield, and bid his people to do the same. He couldn't openly admit it, but all he saw when he looked into the mirror was a craven who had thought himself a hero for too long. How could he face the eyes of his son? How could he face his judgment and his disappointment? All he could do, or try to do, in order to redeem himself, was to make Nargothrond a safe and comforting place for his people, and to prove his cousin that the House of Fëanor had not fallen, and that he could still blaze with the sparks of a might bequeathed by Fëanor himself. Until then, Curufinwë would hide and scheme to make his name shine again, not only for himself, but also for his son.

And while Curufinwë was brooding over his own troubles, more troubles appeared, quite unexpectedly. First, it was a distant sound, coming from the corridors, then a few murmurs in the magnificent crowd, and the agitation of the royal court completed the scene. A guard had joined the king's side and was now whispering into his ear. He seemed distraught, and from where he stood, Curufinwë saw Felagund's face lose its light joyfulness, and turn somber. Soon, the hall was silent, for everyone in the crowd had noticed the apparition of the messenger of what seemed to be ill-omen, and all were waiting anxiously. At length, Felagund stood up, slowly, and gazed at the crowd silently. Curufinwë too was anxious, so anxious that he didn't notice that his brother was now standing beside him, his eyes fixed on their silent and now gloomy cousin.

“If something serious had happened, should we not be the first ones to know about it?” Asked Celegorm in a whisper. “Should we not be informed and our opinion required before anything is said to our people?”

“Hush”. It was the only thing Curufinwë could reply, even though his heart told him that Celegorm was right. But his new anguish was too intense to give it any further thought. Just like everybody in the hall, he was waiting for Finrod to announce the terrible news, no matter what it was.

“My dear friends,” the king began, his voice loud but filled with the gravest emotions. “I must apologize for ruining this celebration and spoiling the festivity, but something serious happened.” The crowd started to whisper again, not loud enough though, to disturb Felagund. “Something terrible and alarming… The High-King is dead.”

Gasps in the crowd, the whispers grew louder and some discreet cries could already be heard. Distraught, Curufinwë turned his head to look at his brother; Celegorm seemed as chocked as he was, and none of them was able to speak yet, nor to emit the slightest sound. But while they stared at each other, and it lasted but a few seconds, many silent feelings were exchanged. Surprise, anxiety, astonishment, fear and even grief, grief for an uncle and a king whom they had never held dear to their hearts, to say the least.

“He died bravely, fighting to his last breast against the dark Enemy himself on the doorstep of Angband.... ” Felagund's voice didn't manage to cover the lamenting cries and words which were spreading across the hall, but he slowly raised up his cup, his head bowed, and soon everybody in the room mimicked him. The two Fëanorian lords though, only made a vague movement with their cups, both of them too absorbed by the flow of contradicting emotions.

A few minutes later, the feast was over, but the crowd didn't spread out and everyone was talking about the news. Felagund had left the table, and the Fëanorions didn't wait too long before finding him in a more private room, where he was in a deep conversation with Orodreth and a few of his most trusted advisers. All of them seemed to be mourning.

“What happened?” Asked Celegorm bluntly as soon as he stepped into the room. “What exactly happened?”

“It is all very confusing, cousin.” Answered Felagund with a dark tone. “Apparently our uncle decided to fight our enemy in single combat, and the challenge was... accepted.”

Celegorm and Curufin said nothing, but both knew that they were having the exact same thought; it seemed like something their father would have done, and which none of them had dared do up to now.

“Ñolofinwë was defeated and our enemy seriously wounded. The war is over, and we lost.”

“The battle is over, but the war is not.” Curufinwë corrected coldly, taking a step forward, his eyes more resolute than ever.

“We are all defeated, Curufinwë.”

“And yet, here we stand. And so does your kingdom.”

“You do not even know if your brothers are safe.”

“They are safe. It cannot be otherwise.” It was Celegorm who had intervened, unable to prevent himself. “This I am certain.”

“Very well...” Felagund sighed, and for a few seconds, all his weariness appeared in his bright eyes, chasing away the light temperament which he had shown since the Fëanorions’ arrival. Thus, Curufinwë could plainly see how his cousin had hidden it, this terrible, deep weariness, and how good he too was with dissimulation. “Let us pretend that everything is going well in the East.” Continued the king with a sarcastic voice.

“Please, Findaráto, do not tell me that you are losing hope...” Replied Curufinwë, increasing the sarcasm kindled by his cousin. “You? Whose hopeful temperament has always been the carrier of so many souls, and your enthusiasm the sparkle of light for so many people.”

Stepping in front of his uncle, Orodreth looked into Curufinwë's eyes sternly. “How dare you?”

“Why? Is it not true? Can you deny that your uncle is famous for his hopeful and enthusiastic manners?” Curufinwë asked, his hand making a sign of peace and temperance. “But that is not important. Hope is important, for our enemy wants but one thing: to scatter despair across Beleriand. If we fall into this trap and allow the dark fingers of despair to creep into our hearts, then he has already won.”

It was odd for Curufinwë to hear himself state such arguments, when he himself had this huge, desperate knot biting in his guts night and day. When he was facing the deepest pit of despondency and couldn't allow himself to trust his own strength anymore. And yet, he knew his words to be true. Even though he was not ready yet to take his own advice for himself, he could at least expect others to do it. He wouldn't allow any of them to carry him, but at least he could draw his strength from other people's will and eventually walk again on his feet. And, in any case, he could still pretend, just like he was doing now, that nothing had changed in his own hopeful forebodings.

Celegorm only would not be fooled, and the quick skeptical look he gave him after his little speech was meaningful enough to let Curufinwë know about it.

As for Felagund, he seemed touched by Curufin's argument, while Orodreth could only express confusion and surprise. They knew Curufinwë was right, and Curufinwë knew that they knew. “We are lords and leaders, our duty is to protect our people from despair.” He concluded with a firm determination. And the whole gathering nodded in agreement, in spite of their so fresh grief, in spite of their bitterness and fears.

 

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The day which followed the ruined feast and the dreary tidings was a day of mourning. No song could be heard in the deep caves of Nargothrond, no cheerful voice nor merry laughter, and it seemed that even the fresh streams that sprang from the earth had hushed their music.

The death of Fingolfin was a tragedy, not only for those who knew and loved the king, but also for all the enemies of Morgoth. Curufinwë himself was troubled, deeply, painfully troubled, but as he had experienced it during the meeting with Finrod and his councilors, grief could become a most powerful and strategical lever, if one knew how to use it, and used it wisely.

All he had to do to acquire trust and support from the people of Nargothrond, and eventually to regain the unconditional trust and utter admiration from his people, was to cautiously handle their feelings through his speech. Carefulness would be his most precious ally, and there would be no hasty move.

The Fëanorion had not left his chambers, preferring the gloomy silence of his own reflections to the mournful stillness that lingered outside. He had not rest at all, he had not even tried, and he had barely spoken to anyone since the end of his discussion with Felagund. Reflection had been a necessity, but now, his mind seemed to be turbid, caught by a numbness which he couldn’t chase away. A vicious circle it was, and his thoughts always brought him back to the same inflictive point; himself, his own defeat, and the opportunity this defeat gave to their enemy. Even when he tried to focus on the recent events and his uncle’s death, the Fëanorion was always taking a path that led him back to himself and his own torments. Curufinwë needed some sort of redemption, he needed to restore his pride, along with his dear self-confidence, and to reclaim his lordship, even though he had never really lost it. He felt it like a deposition, and he was determined to do everything to not do justice to this name of “dispossessed” that had been given to his house.

A slow and feeble knock on the door forced him to settle down, and as he leaned back into the sofa, he let out a quiet but long sigh. “You may come in.”

A few seconds later Celebrimbor was sitting next to his father, and if no word had been said, the long look they had given to each other had been more eloquent than any speech. Celebrimbor was obviously struggling with sorrow and dismay, and Curufiwë instantly understood that he was looking for solace in his father’s presence. This time, Curufinwë tried, desperately, to detach himself from his own selfish misery and to find within him the last marks of the man he used to be, like a faint imprint, the fading shadow of a father who was not yet poisoned by remorse and doubts. “Did you sleep?” He asked warily.

Celebrimbor shook his head silently, and as he kept his eyes on the floor, Curufinwë noticed how uneasy his son looked, and that his behavior expressed a obvious but quiet nervousness; the gap between them was deeper and wider that it had ever been, and Curufinwë knew it was the consequence of his attitude, of his cold and aloof behavior, of the distance which he had established. The shattering anguish which suddenly seized his heart kept his lips locked, and as a stream of guilt and dread ran into his mind, the Ñoldo managed to evade the reality of the situation, forcing himself to remain blind and to not face the agonizing effect of his attitude upon his son. He had indeed, kept himself away from his child, and already Celebrimbor had started to slip away, but despite the distressing ordeal implied by this situation, Curufinwë could not abort it. He could no longer be who he used to be, and he didn’t want his son to witness his new self. Hence this fictitious distance, and his spurious haughtiness, this dark mask which pretended that he didn’t not care anymore. All lies. But these lies were, according to Curufinwë, necessary. Not only to protect himself, but mostly to protect his son.

And still, watching Celebrimbor drifting away from him, witnessing his dejection and his disappointment, that was the most excruciating display Curufinwë had ever faced. And on that day, he refused to face it, he refused to leave his son struggle in these meanders, nor could he repel Celebrimbor through a stern coldness. It was an intricate and paralyzing web of contradicting sentiments; the refusal to let his son see him, interlaced with the agony he felt as he watched his son slip away, the whole lot crowned by the impulsive need to comfort Celebrimbor on this dire day.

All that remained from their complicity and comradery were ashen memories, kept preciously in a coffer Curufinwë didn’t dare open anymore. Yet, on that day, Curufinwë would allow himself to throw a glimpse into it.

Shifting slightly to turn toward his son - and to show that he was receptive to a talk - the Fëanorion tried to catch his son’s eyes with his own, and when he finally achieved it, he allowed a smile, dim and yet sincere, to creep upon his lips. “We are safe here, my child. You said it yourself.”

“Are we, really, father?” Celebrimbor replied, his doubtful voice ringing painfully in Curufinwë’s mind. “You do not behave like someone who feels safe.”

“It is my duty to worry about our people, about my brothers, about our future… about you.” Surprised by the softness of his own voice, Curufinwë quickly bit his tongue, convincing himself that there was no risk in showing affection and giving solace, that it wouldn’t bring any sort of dangerous vulnerability, and that it would not harm Celebrimbor either. The revival of their affection and complicity was harmless, or should be harmless, or so Curufinwë hoped, even though a faint voice in the back of his mind was chanting the contrary, warning him against his disappointing self. And its pleas were not only persistent, they were also threatening. Had he been strong enough, he would have hushed it, he would have reduced the pleas to a dull murmur. And his sanity would have been intact, along with Celebrimbor’s trust and satisfaction. He wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t powerful enough nor daunting enough to kill the voice, but he was tenacious and determined to fight it, if only for a few minutes. An hour. A day. Celebrimbor needed him, and thus needed his father to challenge his lingering anxiety. He could do it.

“Could we, perhaps, worry together, then, father?” There was an attempt for a smile on Celebrimbor’s lips as he pronounced these words, and his father couldn’t ignore it, nor could he forbid himself to reply with the same faint smile.

 “Loneliness is not the prerogative of anguish, is it?” asked Celebrimbor.

“No, it is not, indeed” Replied Curufinwë. “And yet loneliness is sometimes a necessity, no matter what motivates it.”

“Sometimes, yes. Not all the time.”

There was no need to say more; they were both talking the same language, and the innuendos were obvious to the father and the son. But this loneliness which Curufinwë had forged, these walls that he was building about himself, they couldn’t be destroyed. Not now, not like this, even though Celebrimbor’s silent prayers were breaking apart his father’s heart. How could he allow himself to share his worries with his son, when all that he had ever tried to do was to protect him from them, from these tormenting images and tortuous ideas which haunted his mind continually?

But Curufin kept his thoughts silent, and as he stared at his son he realized that his own hand had unconsciously found its place – a most perfect place – on Celebrimbor’s forearm. An instinctive gesture, and a solacing one as much as an affectionate one. And in spite of his torments, Curufin himself found some sort of uttermost comfort in this bashful touch. In this moment, it was the best he could do, the most he could give as a proof of affection, and it was as soothing as it was terrifying. There was a split, wide and deep, between his discomfort, his fears, and the acute consolation that he felt through this simple touch, and all of them merged within him as to turn into the oddest sentiment, like an alloy of molten love, care, anxiety and unease. And still he would hide it, hoping that he would be able to dissemble his emotions.

As for Celebrimbor, he seemed mostly surprised by his father’s movement, pleasantly surprised, and his smile, although it was a sad one, widened while a new light sparkled in his eyes. Hopefulness, that is what Curufinwë saw in this light, and he was too touched to even think about disheartening his child.

“You know, Tyelperinquar, Ñolofinwë probably knew what would happen before he even reached the gates of Angamando.” He said quietly, losing nothing of his composure. “It was his decision.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and during the silent moment which followed, he looked away, as if lost in his own thoughts and memories. “It makes me sad.” He said finally. “Too many people are falling – especially among the strongest of the Ñoldor. Who shall be next?”

Suddenly his eyes fell again upon his father, and in this very moment, Curufinwë was at last able to witness what he had refused to see, and what he had dreaded: so great was the dismay and anxiety in Celebrimbor’s eyes, so intense was the silent cry of his son - a cry against a threat which had been floating above them for so long - that the Fëanorion had to brace himself not to turn his face away. Instinctively, his fingers tightened upon his son’s wrist, and as he grinded his teeth, Curufinwë tried to find the appropriate words, the words which would be able to erase this sadness and these fears from his son’s mind. Yet, despite his knowledge in languages, the Fëanorion found no word, in any tongue of elves, Men or Casari, which would be powerful enough to alleviate his son’s anguish.

And Celebrimbor probably noticed it, for it was he who spoke again, breaking the gloomy silence and his father’s tormenting contemplation. “I wish not to lose my father.”

It felt like a knife in his heart, and his features betrayed the excruciating sensation through a slight wince. A powerful squall seemed to sweep away all of Curufinwë’s common sense, increasing the lack of word and making his silence even deeper and his angst more intense.

Finally, he managed to put his emotions aside, and under Celebrimbor’s anxious gaze, Curufinwë took a deep breath and pulled himself together. “We are at war, son. People fall. Strength and courage and wit are no absolute protection against the claws of death. Especially if one decides that death is the only solution.” With these words, he left the sofa, standing up and pacing slowly in the room, his back to his son.

“I think your assumptions wrong, father.” Celebrimbor’s voice was calm and confident enough to surprise Curufinwë. “I think Ñolofinwë hopeful, I think he believed in victory, and did not wish nor even think about death when he rode to Angamando.”

Confused, Curufinwë pondered the words, and as unexpected as they were, he nonetheless refused to deny this possibility. Hope was still something he was working on, trying to kindle the flames of his own hope which had been fading since the attack on Aglon. “Perhaps, Tyelperinquar.”

When he turned around, Celebrimbor was standing up. “I do not want to believe that he was hopeless.”

“Are we still talking about Ñolofinwë?” The words escaped Curufinwë’s lips, along with a sour tone, and Celebrimbor turned pale, taking a step backward as a deep frown appeared on his brow. “Forget it, son. Forget my words.” And to emphasize his request, Curufinwë continued with a slightly different subject, and his voice was now stern and serious. “The messengers from Barad Eithel are staying here a few days before they return to their new king... or at least until they try. I shall write a few words to Findekáno.”

“What shall you tell him?” There was worry in Celebrimbor’s voice, as if the young lord expected any sort of provocation from his father to the heir of the crown. But Curufinwë gave another of his faint smiles, and it was an honest one.

“My condolences. The loss of a father is…a heartrending experience. ”


	8. A silvery dissension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin keeps on struggling with self-image and with what it means to be respected and admired, and loved. His mind is too full of contradicting stuff and he doesn't know what to do with it (though he keeps on pretending that he knows).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of suicide

A strange disquiet was boiling through the halls of Nargothrond, and although the glimmer in the King’s eyes could easily be deciphered as a token of his anxiety, no one exactly knew how serious it was. Lord Celegorm had left the caves in the coolness of dusk, during this special moment when the winds abate and leave but a heavy haze on the land, a haze so full of its own silence that it seems about to burst with the life of nature that had not yet awoken from its winter sleep. Springtime was always deceitful in Nargothrond; one would expect flowers to blossom on the hills, the Narog to sparkle with the silver light and the breeze of the vivid awakening of nature… and indeed, at noon, one could enjoy the sweet fragrance of the flower-dust blown by the breeze. But soon, the wind would lessen until its utter disappearance, conjuring this ponderous atmosphere that left no one indifferent. It was not the feeling of a threat that it conveyed – it resembled more the portend of something which was about to spring out from the earth, from the river, or even form the most innocent flower after it had had been contained for too long. If this “something” was good or evil, nobody could tell – but it was definitely here, and the moment it would burst out - whether it was close or not – would surely be memorable. Perhaps it was this heavy atmosphere that made the whole realm so restless, or perhaps it was the fact that Lord Celegorm had insisted to take with him more men that was necessary for a common wolf-hunt. Most evidently, something was wrong.  And the tension on Lord Celebrimbor’s graceful features was but another piece of evidence.

To the communities of people that lived and mingled in the caves, the bone of contention remained hidden, even if some of them had noticed the odd absence of Lord Curufin during the king’s last feast. In fact, nobody had seen him for the past few days, but nobody worried. Lord Curufin was famous for his peculiarities, and it was not rare to see him work for days, engrossed in the many processes he devised, in the special features of the ores bought from the dwarves, in the strange light they reflected, and in the way he would enhance that light. Hence their lack of anxiety regarding his disappearance – most of them imagined that another quarrel had occurred between the king and his hot-tempered cousins, leading to a frustration which had driven Lord Curufin directly to his smithies, which he would now refuse to leave.

Basic assumptions, drawn from what was now becoming the Fëanorian lord’s habits. Yet, although these assumptions were too wrong not to be painful, Tyelperinquar had not the heart to contradict them. His father had left three nights before, without a word, without a look, like a shadow he had crept out of the caves, leaving behind people, brother and son. The most striking perhaps was that he had also left his attires, tools, jewels, all his goods and chattels. Which surely meant that he had planned to come back… eventually. Or at least, that was what Tyelperinquar wanted to believe. And so did Tyelkormo, who was certain that his little brother only wanted to escape for a few days, in search of fresh air after so many weeks inhaling nothing but smoke and ashes. Tyelperinquar silently refuted his uncle’s harsh words about the so-called suffocation in the smithies, but here again, he did not have the heart to openly object. Besides, he truly wanted to believe his uncle; after all, as far as they knew, there had been no argument, no particular frustration. He could only come back.

It is only after five days that Tyelperinquar had noticed the first twitches of anxiety on his uncle’s face, the growing tension in his jawline, the wrinkles on his forehead, and he knew the time had come for him to broach the subject. Luckily, he did not have to insist, and less than two hours later, Tyelkormo, his hounds and his henchmen were leaving the caves, Huan leading them all, while Tyelperinquar remained on the threshold, trying not to show any sign of the acrid anxiety which was bubbling in his stomach.

 

 xxxx

 

“Bloody fool.”

Among the chaotic echoes which were surrounding him, Curufin only managed to catch these two words, and even if the voice seemed muffled and distant, he recognized it as his brother’s. Yet, his perception remained blurred, while the different sensations seemed to merge into one vaporous mist of confusion and turmoil. Most surprisingly, he felt no fear, no anxiety, and pain, although it was there, throbbing like a violin string in his flesh, was the least of his worries. The Fëanorion did not exactly know what was happening, nor where he was, but through this anarchy of movements and sensations, he could let his mind escape from the bonds of substantiality. Reality seemed so far, so dim and hollow, that it seemed to be nothing more than a mere illusion in the mist which covered his insight.

“Bloody fool.” He heard Tyelkormo repeat, and although the voice was neither clearer, nor closer, Curufin perceived the growing tension in it. He tried to chuckle, to ease the pressure in his chest through a broken laughter, but it only triggered off a burning coughing fit. And, as he was choking, struggling for air and relief, his throat tightening with each new biting cough, he felt something warm on his forehead – warm and alive; the first real contact with life in several days. His throat untightened, his body relaxed and although he did not manage to free the stinging laughter that was lingering in his stomach, like a ball of poison stuck in his very core, he managed to catch his breath.

“We are almost there. Hold on, brother.”

Curufinwë deduced from the voice and its proximity that the living pressure on his forehead came from his brother’s strong hand, and as the rough fingertips pressed slightly against his temples, conjuring solace and ease, he allowed his mind to surrender, and fell back into a dark and deep unconsciousness.

 

 xxxx

 

There was no way to know if it was night or day, nor for how long he had been laying here. he could not even figure out the origin of the pain. All he was aware of was the painful weight on his chest, and the solacing warmth on his forearm. Yet, while acknowledging both elements, he could find no way to make out anything else. He remembered the taste of blood and ashen water, he remembered the grunts of the dying wolves and the terrified neighs of his horse. But none of it made sense, and it did not match with what had been his expectations. A voice above him, or what seemed to be a voice, was humming. Was it a song? Simple words? Or perhaps a spell. Curufinwë stirred but something, a gentle pressure against his shoulders, kept him still.

More words, and still this incapacity of his to decipher any of them. They sounded like a flow of irregular combinations of intentions, and although he could feel their impacts on his fëa and hröa – through the easing in his lungs and the growing peace in his mind – he found himself unable to catch any coherence.

His mouth was dry, his body heavy, and his mindfulness was soon swept away by oblivion.

 

xxxx

 

It would be so easy to open his eyes, to give them this satisfaction. Which of course, he would not do. No matter who they were (for he could not recognize the voices), he would not give them the pleasure to witness his recovery. Hence his firm immobility, the determined fixity of an alabaster sculpture born from his mother’s hands. Another sour bubble of laughter threatened to break through his throat, and as he repressed it and discarded the image of his mother’s face and hands, the sharp sting of sarcasm pierced his heart.

How proud would you be, mother? Shall you grant me redemption now?

 … Of course, not.

He was still alive, that he knew, and that was precisely why.

“I do not understand, he should be awaking now.” The unknown voice was speaking through bewildered sighs, and Curufin felt a few movements around him, calm and slow. He kept his eyes closed, as still and cold as death itself; He could not conjure it, but he could still pretend.

Sounds of footsteps behind the door - footsteps that he knew too well - the grinding noise of the hinges and the entering was followed by this heavy sigh of his, so easily identifiable, brother. Luckily, his voice bade the others leave the room. Curufin listened to the familiar sounds of his brother’s footsteps as they got closer, forcing himself not to smirk : He knew what was about to happen.

“I reckon you find it terribly amusing, Curvo.” The voice was sharp, filled with an authority and a cynicism which only increased Curufinwë’s determination to remain motionless. Oh, he was not afraid of his brother’s impetuous ways, but Turcafinwë’s acuteness was thwarting his plans. “Stop pretending. I know you are perfectly awake. And if you were not so badly injured I would have already dragged you out of bed.”

Curufin could not prevent a sarcastic wince. He did not want to open his eyes, he did not want to see the world, to find himself face to face with a reality which he had come to despise. 

“Come on, Curvo. I have enough of your folly.”

Begrudgingly, Curufinwë opened but one eye. “Happy?” He asked with a voice which he had not expected to be so hoarse. Turcafinwë nodded, a severe stoicism covering his features. “Then, know that it is not folly that drives me.” Curufinwë added as he carefully raised himself up on his elbows, ignoring the stings of pain in his left side.

“If it is not folly, I daresay it is madn—“ before Turcafinwë could finish his sentence, a heavy pillow came hit his face. “Too weak to open your eyes but healthy enough to strike me.”  The older brother said after a deep growl.

“I shall always be healthy enough to prevent you from asserting absurdities.”

 “Whereas I cannot even prevent you from running to your own death…” There was an odd guilt in Tyelkormo’s words, a guilt which Curufinwë was not used to associate with his brother’s voice, and during the silent seconds that followed, they stared at each other, confused, bitter… and embarrassed.

“What did you exactly try to do, Curufinwë?” Tyelkormo had sat down on a chair next to his brother’s bed, and in his eyes, Curufinwë could distinctly see the thirst for answers, for understanding. But he remained silent, clutching to his secrets, thus Tyelkormo continued. “We found you unconscious – if not half-dead – on the bank of the Narog where the Gringlith meets it. The river was still red with your blood. What did you want to prove?”

Curufinwë looked absentmindedly at the lamps on the walls, his lips sealed by his stubbornness. How could he explain? How could anyone understand? How could they accept that it was not death itself that attracted him, but the consequences of it? If there had been any other way, if he could have earned the benefits without diving into the cold swamp of death… He had pondered the situation for so long, considering all alternatives, but it was plain to him that it was only through such a sacrifice that something could be achieved, and return them their dignity and the consecrated trust of the Ñoldor.

 “Alright, keep your bloody secrets, Curvo. But you should also keep in mind that I shall not always be around to save your arse.”

Curufinwë chuckled, a long, bitter chuckle, relieving at last the pressure in his stomach. “Do you want me to thank you, Turco?”

“I want you to be honest me. If you are still capable of it. Which I doubt.” Said Turcafinwë in a jolty rhythm, as if he was genuinely juxtaposing his thoughts as they came, and he raised from his seat.

With his eyes looking keenly at his brother’s tall figure, and while ignoring the stinging pain which increased with each new breath, Curufinwë swallowed back his bile. “You do not know what you are talking about, Turco”

“Tell me, then. Explain.”

“You do not need to know about it.” The statement was definitive, and after Curufinwë had uttered it, he could only witness its effect on his brother. The bitter resentment which had stemmed from Curufinwë’s utterance was painfully evident, and on Turcafinwë’s features it was spreading like a shadow, a dark wave of indignation and disillusion twisting his face into a gloomy wince. “Damn you, Curvo.” Eventually, Turcafinwë walked to the door, but he did not immediately leave, casting another disappointed look at his brother. “You should avoid moving; three of your left ribs are broken and it shall take a few days before the wound on your thigh cicatrizes. I know not what sort of poison drips from the wolves’ fangs, but it could have been lethal.”

“Mh. I see.” Curufinwë mumbled, not even surprised by his brother’s hasty departure. But there was something else he wanted to know. “Tyelkormo…? While I was unconscious, I felt… I know someone was beside me. Was it you?” Although his brother was turning his back to him, Curufinwë could perceive his bitter smirk, and in his brother’s sigh he heard exasperation.

“Curvo, while you were running towards a foolish death, did you even have a thought for your son, about what would befall him?”

The statement hit him like a blow, and as he repressed a silent gasp, the pain seemed to explode in his side.

“Of you course you did not, you selfish idiot.” Turcafinwë continued, still no looking at him. “It was him, not me, who looked after you during your convalescence, which lasted no less than a week if you want to know.” Finally, Turcafinwë turned his head, his eyes burning with aggravation. “He never left the bedside, not until I ordered him to get some sleep, a few hours ago. You should be grateful that he does not despise you yet.” With this last assessment, Turcafinwë left the room, slamming the door behind him as to emphasize, if necessary, the expression of his anger.

Alone and thoughtful in the silence of the chamber, Curufinwë looked under the bedsheets to discover the dark purple bruise on his ribcage, a bruise which was exceeding the length of the bandages wrapped around his chest. If spasms were not so painful, he would have burst into laughter. “You ran after a glorious sacrifice and you find yourself with nothing more than a bruise and a few stitches. Pathetic.” He murmured to himself, his lips barely parting as the words mingled with his breath.

That was what he had wanted. A sacrifice in due form. Himself, facing the werewolves, dying while protecting Nargothrond and its people from the monsters of the North… Then he would have been dignified. And they would have seen. Impressed by the nobility of his blood, there would have been more of them to follow his brothers, more of them to see the glory of their vows, to have faith in their fortitude and valour, to trust their greatness.

But what Curufinwë was refusing to admit, especially to himself, was his craving for a status which remained denied and out of reach: the status of a hero, and the admiration which goes with it. Ñolofinwë, Angaráto, Ambaráto… all heroes now. Even his father. Oh, many of them still resented him, but something in their speeches had changed since his death… and when Curufinwë had taken his horse and followed the Narog, riding north with the determination of a winter gale, it had been his one hope. To become a hero, to reach this statue through blood and pain and death. His uncle had sacrificed himself, they all said. Well… he could do it as well. And prove them that the courage and dignity of Finwë was also in his veins.

This death-drive had been pervasive ;  it had hammered splinters into his heart and covered his thoughts with the conviction that even the most preposterous death would bring him something. If not a new aura of sanctity, at least an illusion of redemption and dignity. Now, all that was left of it was a risible bruise, a resentful brother and a son whom he had egotistically ignored.

 

xxxx

 

Three shy knocks on the door forced Curufinwë to open his eyes. If he had slept, he knew not for how long, and he blamed Findaráto for these caves deprived of window, deprived of the slightest arrow slit and opening.

He already knew the identity of the person who had knocked, and he waited for his own breath to reach a more regular pace before allowing him to come in. From the dim smile on Tyelperinquar’s lips, Curufinwë gathered that his son was not as resentful as he had fearfully expected, and the faint light in his eyes revealed nothing but benevolence and concern. Silently, he stepped into the room and sat on the chair previously occupied by his uncle. Curufinwë felt no haste to speak, simply glancing at his son from time to time in a pathetic attempt to decipher the enigmatic light on his pale face. Besides, there were feelings merging within him which he could not identify yet: It was not exactly shame - although it resembled it - it was surely not anger and if there were hints of disappointment, they were only aimed at himself. His mind busy with this inner contemplation, Curufinwë didn’t notice the slight shift in Tyelperinquar’s complexion, and when he eventually reached out to rest his hand on his father’s arm, a pleasant thrill ran over Curufinwë’s skin. The same touch, the same warmth that he had sensed during the painful crisis. His muscles tensed, but Tyelperinquar’s hands held on, his fingers clasped around his wrist in a gentle but determined grip.

“Father, I am so glad to see you—“

“There is no need for such words, Tyelperinquar.” Curufinwë cut off pithily, unwilling to deal with any sort of commiseration, and especially not his son’s.

“Alright.” The young Ñoldo replied with an understanding nod for which Curufinwë felt grateful. “I am relieved though.”

There were questions in the two Ñoldor’s minds, but none of them seemed neither willing nor ready to ask them, clad in an embarrassment which – Curufinwë knew – was but the upshot of his own behaviour. Eventually, and quite unexpectedly, Tyelperinquar left the seat, crossed the invisible gap which stood between them, and sat on his father’s bed, ignoring the surprised look in Curufinwë’s eyes. It was surprising, but there was also a solace in his son’s bold initiative.

During years, it had been Curufinwë who, as an anxious father, had sat beside the child Tyelperinquar used to be, chasing the nightmares away with a gentle brush of his fingers, a few words in his ears and a tender look. Or he would just sit down and it seemed his very presence sufficed to drive the fears away – Tyelperinquar would glance at him, give a soft smile, and fall back again in the childish and innocent slumber, the peaceful mist of dreams that only children could dive in.

What had happened since? Nightmares had lingered through the years, Curufinwë’s own nightmares, pouring still more acid and more bile into his fëa, and although his son did not mention the nightmares anymore, Curufinwë knew they had not released him either. The difference remained in their impacts on them, and already Tyelperinquar appeared as much tougher than his father, for he seemed to resist their acridity with a strength that Curufinwë had lost.

Now, it was the son who was sitting by the father’s side.

What for?

Although Curufinwë had not spoken the words aloud, Tyelperinquar reacted as if he had heard them, with a quick movement of his head and an inquiring look. Determined to show nothing of his pervasive doubts, Curufinwë remained impassive but already he felt that his son’s generous presence would break through the wall of glass he had built around himself. And it would not take long.

“I only hope it helped a bit.” Tyelperinquar eventually murmured.  There was no need to define the “it”, and yet, when Curufinwë nodded, he could not bring himself to look at his son.

“It was… unbearable to see you lie here. I felt so powerless, I had to—“

With slow movement of his hand Curufinwë asked for silence. “There is no need to talk about it.”

“Allow me to disagree, father. We must talk about it, if only for my sanity. And yours, if you still care about it.” Curufinwë did not reply and kept his eyes fixed on his own fingers, playing with the quilt. “Do you still care about it, father? Do you still care about anything?”

“Of course, I do!” He had not been able to repress the exasperation which had stemmed from the short inquiry. “Why do you all deem me uncaring?”

“Because there is nothing in your behaviour which would indicate that you actually care.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was surprisingly calm, as opposed to the growing indignation in his father’s tone, and it seemed to the latter that his son was gradually getting more confident. Yet, he suddenly dropped his gaze and put his eyes on his father’s agitated fingers, the only sign of his uneasiness (and that was definitely a new habit). “… if you did care, you would not have tried to kill yourself.”

Curufinwë’s exasperation did not decrease, but as he witnessed the desperate expression in his son’s face, he took a deep breath, relaxed his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, yet much darker. “I did not try to kill myself…. Is it what your uncle told you?”

Tyelperinquar shook his head, and slowly raised his eyes in an attempt to catch his father’s elusive gaze. “I do not need to ask my uncles if I want to understand you.”

“I did not try to kill myself.”

Silence invaded the room, a dark thick wave of cumbersome silence which seemed to keep them stuck in its essence. Tyelperinquar’s fingers had not left his father’s arm and Curufinwë could feel them tighten, silently encouraging him to speak, and if not to confess, at least to relieve him from the burden of his enigmatic motives. And quite to his own surprise, Curufinwë yielded. Or at least, he tried, first by allowing his eyes to move up until they finally fell on his son’s face. And oh, there was something in those silver eyes which directly reached his heart, piercing it with a needle, or maybe thousands of needles, as sweet as honey and as biting as the edge of Angrist. And yet, he could not name this “something” and was unable to find any clear definition for this feeling, although it was not so alien as he imagined – but he had not yet acknowledged it.

“What was it, father?”

The following breath that Curufinwë took sent spasms of pain through his chest, like wires, gush of agony billowing in his flesh and bones.

“… please, father. I do need to know, and I daresay you need to--” Tyelperinquar stopped before the end of his sentence, and his father could only assume that his own expression was the cause of this sudden silence.

“I wanted to  _them_  to see.” He simply said, ignoring the befuddled look on Tyelperinquar’s face as he repeated his statement a second time. “… to see.”

After a few seconds of confusion, the young Ñoldo removed his hand from his father’s arm. “I am afraid I do not understand, father… What did you want them to see?” He asked, his voice as delicate and tactful as his gingerly chosen words.  But despite his thoughtfulness, his father did not reply, diving into silence and pondering the situation; how could he explain, especially when his son – he had realised it now – was one of the most important among  _them_?

Tyelperinquar’s patience was obviously getting thinner, and Curufinwë could not ignore any longer that his stubbornness was already turning against himself, for it was now in Tyelperinquar’s attitude that exasperation could be seen; his sighs were becoming sharper, the delicate tenderness in his eyes was turning into an incisive spark, and in his gestures a new tension was replacing the carefulness. Resting his elbows on his knees, his chin pressed against his hands, Tyelperinquar seemed to try his mind at the taming of the indignation which had been asleep until this very moment. Another useless effort, as his father soon witnessed. “All that we saw was the foolishness of your pride, father.”

Curufinwë knew words could be more painful than any broken bones; had he been stamped on by his horse, the agony would not have been worse. In a reflexive movement that he had not planned, he reached out with his right hand to rest it on his son’s shoulder, a futile attempt and the upshot of an unconscious need to keep Tyelperinquar close. But the young Elda spurned his father’s effort and left the bed with a quiet hiss which delved into Curufinwë’s wounded heart. A part of him wanted to beg, to beseech his son not to judge him, to give him the benefice of the doubt, but there was the other part, the prideful, fearful one, the one that refused to show this sort of frailty, a frailty which he asserted to be no more than a plague; for, how could he protect, rule, and commit himself if there was such a weakness in him. Unfortunately, this vainglory kept the Fëanorion blind, too blind to point out the evident tension between his desire to remain the guardian of his people, of his son, and the death-drive which had led him northward a few days before, prompting him to abandon all that he cared about. All of it for one vain purpose. To be admired…

“You pretend that you care...” Tyelperinquar uttered quietly, and from his bed Curufinwë could only see his back and his bowed head, as if lowered by an emotion too heavy for him to carry. And oh, how he wished he could carry this burden for him, whatever it was.

Ignorant of his father thoughts, Tyelperinquar continued: “… And I remember you caring about me, caring about yourself, about… about everything, actually. But I am not certain I can still believe that you do.”

Biting his own tongue, Curufinwë listened and tried to discard the scream which was blocking his airways - a scream which he would not let go, and which would remain there, like a ball of sticky mud stuck in the back of his throat. Now Tyelperinquar was turning around, and Curufinwë knew he had no choice but to cope with the strange mix of resentment and pain and fear in his son’s eyes, devoid of what he had always craved. “You abandoned me, father, did you not?”

“Tyelperinquar…”

“Did you not? And I am not only talking about this absurd trip which almost killed you. You abandoned me before we reached Nargothrond.”

“Nonsense.”

“Why must you be like this?”

“Like this?” Taken aback by what he saw as an unfair assessment, Curufinwë could not repress the flow of emotions which instantly filled his voice and resonated through the room. “How dare you address me so impudently? I am your father, Tyelperinquar, and I still expect some respect and consideration from you!” the spasms which had accompanied the admonishment had also increased the ache, and Curufinwë found himself breathless and paralysed by a new wave of pain. His forehead was wet with his own sweat, with the pulsation of his torment in his temples, as whips of fire, their flames scratching his mind, and he rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes anew. Not only was he waiting for the agony to decrease, but he was also cursing himself for his reaction; It was not what he should have said, and the spiteful words which were still echoing in his head had sounded so wrong, so utterly and sorely wrong.

And while he was writhing with pain, both emotional and physical, Tyelperinquar rushed to the bed, obviously alarmed by the wince of agony on his father’s face. Catching a piece of cloth, he carefully placed it on his father’s forehead, his free hand already taking hold of his father’s fingers again. “Please father, try to calm down and breathe.” Behind Curufinwë’s sealed eyelids, Tyelperinquar’s voice echoed so purely, the words and the tone sounded so genuine and authentic and right, that tears would have broken through if he wasn’t clinging to the chimeras which he called strength and dignity. He tried to say something, but the new heaviness of his tongue and the fatigue induced by the pain kept him quiet.

“I am right here, father.” Tyelperinquar continued, pouring into his father’s ears words of comfort that tasted sweeter than honey, but which were as vivid as the brightest summer sun. “I am not leaving your side.”

After a moment and a few other words, the pain started to decrease, and Curufinwë opened his eyes to see the sad smile of his son. “Do you want me to loosen the bandages, father?” He slowly shook his head, still unable to pronounce a word, but already his fingertips were pressing gently against Tyelperinquar’s palm. Now he could taste his own shame, and its sourness was sharper than the broken ribs and the thickest wolfish poison. Yet, despite the silent remorse and self-bashing, he managed to hold his son’s look, and they both stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed to last an eternity. If Tyelperinquar had not forgotten the harshness of his father’s stubbornness and words, he showed nothing of their impact, and if Curufinwë could not tell if it was forgiveness that he saw in the silver eyes, he was certain that the flickering spark in them was nothing less than benevolence. Benevolence was enough, Curufinwë asked for nothing more, not even understanding. Oh no, certainly not understanding! He preferred to keep Tyelperinquar ignorant of the ghosts of humiliation and uncertainty that haunted his heart, to keep him away from the spectres of disgrace, protecting him from their toxic breath. Even if it meant taking the blame upon himself and appearing as an odious fool.  He would sacrifice admiration to keep him safe.

“Tyelpinkë…” He heard himself whisper. “You do not have to.”

“Hush, father. I know you would do the same for me.”     


	9. The temptation of oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication between father & son is getting more and more difficult, but a devoted brother can always bring some sort of relief.

The chant of the hammer was echoing loudly around him, the grave notes too much like those of a bell, a toiling bell, which repeated endlessly its omens and announcing, if not death, at least the end of something; of an era, perhaps, or of a mood, an atmosphere which was slowly shifting and turning into something new. The spring was silently rolling towards its own end and with the summer were coming new hopes but also new threats, for the clouds above Tol-Sirion seemed to carry the stench of the North, and slowly it crept down the streams. The Narog itself seemed to suffer from the poison, droplets of evil flowing down Beleriand despite the protection of Ulmo. 

The hammer kept on falling, regularly, and the steel beneath it received the blows with an echo of its dirge, as if all the threats which a blade could carry were gathering into the sharp alloy. Curufinwë liked its music. He liked the promises held by the elegy of steel, he liked the hopes which, as the sparks kindled by the blows, sprang around the anvil. He also liked the heat of the oven behind him, the soft breath of the bellows and the crackling of the flames. 

As soon as he had been able to walk again, Curufinwë had locked himself up in the smithy which he had made his. During the weeks which had followed, the weakness of his body had been a bit of a burden, and with each breath he drew, a new pain came hitting at his ribcage. His lungs too were painful at times, justifying Tyelkormo’s reproach regarding his bold decision to tarry in the ashen atmosphere of the forge. Curufinwë had had to literally wrestle with his brother, who would have picked him up and carried him outside, hammering that only some fresh air would quicken his recovery. 

But what did it mean now, for Curufinwë? A physical recovery was nothing beside the emotional one, and still the needles of his failures and the poison of his inner fights were assaulting him. Hence the long hours bent upon the anvil, sweat dripping down his forehead, muscles tensed as he moved carefully, with the precision of old, the perfectionism of his hands and the intent focus which his handcraft required. Even Tyelperinquar had not dared disturb his father’s studious loneliness, and barely had he dared to stand on the threshold of the workshop, observing, fascinated – as usual – by Curufinwë’s skills, by the delicacy of his movements, the intensity of his concentration, by the way his eyes followed the lines, scanning the beauty of the ores which he would enhance, as much as the bright reflection of the light on the steel. And Curufinwë paid no heed to his son’ s presence, nor to the exhaustion of his own body. He had even stopped caring about his appearance, and the stained and old apron that he wore barely covered a tunic which had been the same for the past days. With his dishevelled braids and the dirt on his face and fingers, his look matched his despair, and if Tyelperinquar did know recognize his father behind these grim and miserable features, he did recognize him in every movement that he made, in the prowess displayed through each delicate shift of his fingers. And Curufinwë’s eyes could not lie either, nor would they let him pretend to be someone he was not. 

Sometimes he mumbled words, uttering straps of truth, monosyllabic realities, dulled offspring of a hidden epiphany. He himself did not totally grasp the core of their meaning; they were thoughts, furtively escaping his mind before he could catch their truth, before he could bring himself to understand them. They hastily left his lips and ran away from his reach, muffled and veiled by his own unconscious reluctance to seize them. 

Oblivion.  
That was what he sought, and that was the reason of his immersion, of his delving into work. Burying himself beneath his peerless creations, hidden behind the scoria of these accomplishments. Perhaps would he find in them a meaning, a new breath, which would help him recover the taste of life. Yes... to recover pride and self-esteem in the fruits wrought by his skilful hands, and to unveiled his dignity. His work, at least, would not betray him, his talent would not desert him, and still, as he dived into this ineffable ability of his - his capacity to create, to sharpen, to enhance – he could allow himself not to think.  
Oblivion.  
It was himself that he feared, the dreadful dreams and expectations, inexorably imbued with humiliation and shame. He did not wish to think about them, to think about himself, about what he had done and what could still be done. 

Perhaps the time had come for him to uncover the lies, all these lies forged around himself; that he was _just like his father_. That there were in him the radiance, the power and the skill of Fëanáro. That he could eventually live up to him.  
All lies. All broken.  
Perhaps he simply needed to discard them.  
Perhaps he would become another man. Perhaps it would make him more _real_. For if he stopped trying – and failing – to be _just like his father_ , he could probably manage to become his real self.  
But what did it mean? Who was he? What was his reality?

Oblivion.  
That was why he worked so hard, caring neither for his physical needs, nor for his appearance. He sought to protect his sanity, to keep the questions away and to prevent himself from drowning into a swamp of self-bashing, to keep the inquisition of his own mind shut.  
Tyelperinquar could still watch him, but Curufinwë would not allow him to fathom the intensity of his misery, of his reassessment.

The song of the hammer cradled him, chasing away doubts and fears. A familiar melody of old, reminding him of who he used to be, reminding him of the one he called father. And yet, this melody was but another illusion, a fruitless attempt to summon peace, merriness, and solace. Lessons heard and internalized centuries before, they were parts of him now, and in the hypnotizing chiaroscuro of the workshop, Curufinwë came to wonder if he had been made of them: The lectures given by his father, the advises and ceremonious teachings; how much had they forged him, the eager student, bewildered by Fëanáno’s every word and the wisdom they distilled.  
Curufinwë had had no such wisdom for his son. Only the shadows of what had been learnt in the past, and even this, he could not give anymore.

They were both used to work together, with his son, if not on the same process, at least in the same workshop – side by side – each silently bent on a new creation, and the young Ñoldo would sometimes ask for an advice, or for his father’s approval. Which Curufinwë never begrudged. All was different now, and Tyelperinquar still stood on the threshold. Since his father had returned to the smithy, he hadn’t touched a hummer nor approached any anvil. He just watched, worried and half hypnotized by Curufinwë’s very movement, his own eyes grasping and learning all they could from his father’s processes.

Unable to look away from the steel in front of him – fearing to see another ghost born out of his mind – Curufinwë did not notice his approaching son, and when he reached out to pick up the tongs, he was most surprised to have the tool hanged to him by Tyelperinquar. His son was smiling, dimly, as if shyness forced him to repress any hasty expression, and as Curufinwë looked into his eyes, he seemed to wake up from a trance.

“Good morning, father.”

 _Morning_? So, another night had passed, and a new day was coming. When was the last time he had seen the light of Arien?  
Casting aside the questions and thoughts, Curufinwë gave a quick nod and took the tool, but quite to his own surprise, his son did not let go of it, his fingers tightly clenched around the handle. With a questioning look, Curufinwë held on too, and the two Ñoldor stared at each other, both quiet and still, as if trying to decipher each other’s thoughts. Eventually, Curufinwë broke the silence with a grim voice. His throat was sore.

“Are you waiting for something, Tyelperinquar?”

“At last!” Said Tyelperinquar, finally letting go of the handle.” Yes, father. I was waiting for you to notice me, you know, _me_. Your son.”

Bemused and confused, Curufinwë frowned. He did not understand – or did not want to understand – what this fuss was all about, and he looked at his son with a gloomy pout, his head tilting slightly. Thus, Tyelperinquar continued:

“I have been waiting for you to acknowledge my presence, my concern, my worry. I have been waiting for you to realise that you cannot go on like this!”

“What do you mean?” Said Curufinwë, unwilling to acknowledge any of this, unwilling to cast away the veil which had kept him blind and protected him from the truth, from the dreadful epiphany. Not only did he not want to see his son’s sufferings, but he was also reluctant to admit his own misery.

“What do I mean? Are you kidding, father?” Tyelperinquar’s voice as growing louder, his tone more impatient and his movements had nothing in common with his usual behaviour; hasty, blunt, tactless. “Do you even know for how long you have been locked in here?”

“Enough with your whimsical fit, Tyelperinquar!” Stated Curufinwë sharply. “I am working here. And you know better than anyone that I have to—”

“No, father.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was sharper than his father’s now, and it forced Curufinwë to freeze, catching him by surprise and cutting right into his soul. “I have enough of your lies, of your phony justifications, of your feeble excuses, father. I do not know who you are trying to fool – me or yourself – but it must stop. I am not a child anymore, and you… you should stop behaving like one!”

“Get out, Tyelperinquar.”

“Father, I—”

“GET OUT.” 

These last words had been uttered with such a biting tone, that Tyelperinquar found himself forced to step back, as if pushed by the keen point of Angrist. His eyes burning with a new painful fever, Curufinwë watched his son as he swayed on his feet, astounded by the harshness of his father’s words and tone, and Curufinwë was still watching heatedly when Celebrimbor left the workshop, tensed and shocked.

Curufinwë too was shocked, not only appalled by the boldness of his son’s behaviour, but also by his own spiteful reaction. His hands were shaking now, which was totally unusual, and so unlike himself.  
This too, he would need to forget, to dismiss. The sweet fragrance of oblivion was tempting him again. But only work could help him reach the level of deafness which he needed, and with these shaking fingers, no work could be achieved. Nonetheless, this overwhelming powerlessness did not alleviate his restlessness, and with the heavy gait of a wounded beast, Curufinwë walked to a basin. The water felt cool and comforting on his skin, and the droplets that slid down his face, if they could not wash away his frustration nor his shame, would rip the veil which covered his mind with the numbness of his disillusion. Luckily there was no mirror in the workshop, no reflection, no dull twin to judge him, no one to mimic his foolishness. 

He looked down at his hands again. Still shaking. His frustration increased and Curufinwë had to gather all his will to not strike the wall with his trembling fist. There was hate in his heart, but he did not know who he hated; surely not Tyelperinquar. Himself? no, not himself. His behaviour? yes, painfully. His own behaviour and the unknown motives behind it. He did not fully grasp the meaning of it, nor the reasons that hid beneath his reactions. And yet, it felt like the explanation was close, so very close, only a few inches from his understanding. But it remained buried under a heap of secret fears and despondency. Nonetheless, he could not remain idle, he could not passively wait for the truth to reveal itself and he was about to try to get his hands back to work when the silence of the workshop was broken anew. 

The loud and deep voice which was already calling for him could only belong to one person, and Curufinwë was not sure he wanted to see him right now. But there was no place to hide, and he knew he would have to listen to whatever his brother had to tell him.

“Tidings from Himring.” Tyelkormo yelled as soon as he stepped into the workshop, and Curufinwë’s heart started to pound fiercely. No matter what the news were, it would still be better than another heap of remonstrances, and they would keep him away from his own pervasive thoughts.  
Their messengers had been sent many weeks before, and the two Fëanorian lords had feared that they had never reached their brothers. With a quiet nervousness, Curufinwë waited for the hammer to fall, expecting the worse. But suddenly, Tyelkormo’s sharp expression shifted and a peaceful smile reached his lips.

“They are all safe, Curvo.”

The hammer which fell upon him was the hammer of relief, of odd gratefulness, and one of the layer of this ominous, blinding veil had been torn apart, allowing a ray of light to touch him.

“Kano is in Himring” Tyelkormo continued, stepping closer. “Just like the Gap, Thargelion had been utterly ravaged, but apparently Moryo escaped southwards to find Telvo and Pityo and they all reached Ramdal, from which they hold the way to Ossiriand, so the East is not utterly taken by our enemy. They all suffered many losses, but they are alive and ready to fight again.”

Curufinwë nodded gratefully, but through his relief another poison was already making its way to his heart. “What of Himlad?” He asked with a dim voice.

Tyelkormo’s smile faded, and Curufinwë saw him swallowed bitterly a formidable knot of angst. “Devastated. Nothing is left, they said, but ruins and dusts. And rotten corpses. Nelyo sent his henchmen to gather the dead, and to give them the honour they deserve, but the orkor seem to linger on our lands…

“… and who knows what shall become of the dead.” Curufinwë concluded with an acrid voice, his tongue weighted by the acrimony of the vision in his mind; his lands desolated and his people slaughtered; farms, towers, houses and fortifications burnt to the ground. Blood on the thick turf and ashes in the winds. And there was nothing to be done. Then the dreadful words came back to his mind: _’To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…’_

“We shall take it back, Curvo. We shall return, slaughter the invaders and rebuild, restore, heal and strengthen everything.”

It was but the dream of fools. He knew it now, and with each passing day, it had become so painfully clear to him that Himlad was definitely lost. He said nothing though, unwilling to break his brother’s expectations, his hopes and confidence. Tyelkormo was not ready yet to accept it. And Curufinwë could only nod and pretend.

“… Is Himring safe?” He asked after a short silence. “Did they manage to block the Pass.”

“Nelyo retook Aglon. And I believe in him. He has gathered around him the survivors from the East Marshes and Dorthonion.”

Another approving nod, and a genuine one this time.

“All is not lost, little brother. And despair is not our fatality. And although we cannot return yet, we still have reasons to believe in revenge. The Enemy will pay.”

These were words Curufinwë needed to hear, and his brother’s determined tone soothed, momentarily, his aching soul. Since Tyelkormo had stepped in, Curufinwë had done all he could to hide his shaking hands, sticking them in a pocket or folding them behind his back, and luckily, Tyelkormo had not noticed his brother’s awkward behaviour. Or if he had, he had not mentioned it. Now that Curufinwë’s discomfort had slightly vanished, he could finally expect his fingers to behave. Thus, he started to tidy up the workbench, and much to his relief, his hands obeyed him, calm and submissive as they picked up the tools and scrolls. 

Now Tyelkormo was quietly watching his brother, waiting for a reaction which Curufinwë was unwilling to give: he was determined to control himself now, and to not let his emotions overtake him again. What had happened with Tyelperinquar had been a stupid mistake which he would not allow anymore. His emotions, as fierce as they could be, had to be kept in bounds, locked within him. They were dangerous, and no matter how hard they would burn him from inside, Curufinwë would not let them get out. It was a vulnerability which he would never accept.

“And how do you feel, Curvo?”

He did not answer, pretending to be too busy with his cleaning. Tyelkormo, who knew his brother’s too well to be fooled, continued:

“’Tis strange to receive such complete tidings from Himring while I get none from _you_.”

“I have been working.”

“I do not believe you.”

“What else do you think I do, here, if not working?”

“Brooding. Hiding. Feeding your own misery; the kind of things at which you excel.” Tyelkormo said with a shrug. “What is wrong with your hands?”

They had started to shake anew, triggered by Tyelkormo’s assessments which had struck too close to the truth. 

“Nothing.” Answered Curufinwë, turning away, folding his arms as to hide his fingers under his armpits. “Thank you for the relieving tidings, brother. Now I must work, so could you just leave?”

“Could I help with your work? I have not been in a forge for decades, I need to practice.”

“No, you do not, Tyelkormo.” Curufinwë was not one to be fooled so easily, and he too knew his brother to the core. He too could see through his tricks.

“Alright. Then perhaps _you_ need to practice something different… such as socializing, sleeping, eating… and bathing. When was the last time you change? Even my hunting boots are cleaner than your shirt, and you know of my tendency to step on orkor’s skulls.”

“As much as I know your inability to stay away from my business.”

“That is different, Curvo, for your business is also mine.” Curufinwë replied with a deep growl but Turcafinwë ignored him as he continued. “Our people count on both of us, and we agreed that _you_ would mainly do the talking with Findaráto and his courtiers about our position here. Now Findaráto himself asks to meet you and none of his pets dares enter your den. Then, well, you know how things usually go in such circumstances; our cousin gets impatient, he sends people to find me, he asks about you and insists that I get you out of here. I refused of course, but now I cannot draw a breath without his pets asking me news of you. I feel like our cousin is growing obsessed with you and it is getting embarrassing.”

“Not my problem.” Curufinwë sighed, barely raising an eyebrow, not even surprised by his brother’s speech.

“It is a problem to me, and my problems should be yours.”

“Where does that come from?” Now, Curufinwë was growing impatient too, and Tyelkormo’s insistence only increased his reluctance. “Moreover, I am convinced that you could easily get rid of these parasites who seem to be after you.”

"Pray tell me, brother, how could I do that?” 

“ Scare them; all you need to do is to be yourself.” Curufinwë replied with a sharp smirk.

“I would love to, but I need to look out for my reputation. That is what you told me, is it not?” 

Another sigh left Curufinwë’s lips, a longer one, and exhaustion could be heard behind his breath. Of course, his brother did not need him. Turcafinwë could very well deal with Findaráto without him; it was but an excuse, a trick to draw him away from the dust of the smithy. This Curufinwë knew too well. But behind his exasperation and his reluctance to step outside, his determination was growing thinner, weakened by his own lack of confidence regarding himself, and the future which stood before them. There were fractures in the thick walls of his will, and the high throne on which his ego liked to sit was being wrecked by his dejection and his lack of insight. He no longer understood himself, and he no longer saw where his path led. 

“Prithee, Curvo” Tyelkormo almost begged, getting hold of his brother’s sleeves, “Let us get out of this place. Come with me. If only for a few hours. Then I promise I will let you dwell in here. I can even get you a blanket, a hide, a litter, everything that such a lonely lair requires.”

“As long as I can keep the ermine…” Curvo said, trying not to hinder the smile his brother had managed to draw from him. 

“I said _everything_ , did I not?”

With a few quick movements, Curufinwë took off the apron, grabbed a dark cloak which he instantly put around his shoulders, and followed his brother whose satisfaction was obvious. 

“If I may, Curvo, before you bestow your glorious presence upon the king, you should definitely drop by the bathroom.”


	10. Unspoken reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orodreth and Finrod have something important to ask, and an opportunity to give to Celebrimbor... And Curufin is not sure what to think of it, and he certainly doesn't know how to deal with it.  
> {Feat. Young Gil-Galad}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I hurt myself like this?

The luxurious display of wealth in the King’s quarters seemed particularly strange and ostentatious to Curufinwë after these long weeks of seclusion, and his eyes needed a few minutes to get used to the light coming from the lampstones, and its reflection in the flamboyant materials of the furniture and dishes.

After a long bath and a quick but necessary visit to his wardrobe, Curufinwë had acceded to his cousin’s insistent request and followed his servant to a private chamber in the depths of the caves. There waited the king, two advisors whom Curufinwë knew to be close to Felagund, but also, and much to Curufinwë’s surprise, Orodreth, his wife and his children. Finduilas he had already met once, and in her he had seen the features of her forefathers, but Ereinion he knew not well. Therefore, his eyes lingered on the face of the young Elf. Contrary to his sister whose lovely complexion was that of the House of Finarfin, his features seemed to be a perfect merging of Ñoldorin and Sindarin particularities, and in his eyes, one could already see the iron will of Finwë’s blood. Ereinion was not yet what the Eldar considered an adult, but surely, he would soon leave childhood behind him, although innocence lingered on his serious face.

“I believe you sent for me, Findaráto…” Curufinwë said after a quick but elegant bow. “Yet… Need I remind our agreement about family reunions….?”

“It is not exactly what it looks like, Curufinwë;” Replied Felagund with a gentle smile, hiding not his amusement. “Yet, we are waiting for one last person and we shall not begin before his arrival. It should not be long now.” Frowning, Curufinwë looked around him, and vainly he tried to figure out the identity of the latecomer. “It was complicated to convince him to come.” The king continued, his smile still bright and friendly. “I daresay he is as stubborn as his father.”

The questioning look on Curufinwë’s face was welcomed by a quiet chuckle of the court, but before the Ñoldo could argue, the doors behind him opened again, and Tyelperinquar stepped in. His face was stern and he passed by his father without a look for him, ignoring Curufinwë as he if he was nothing more than a part of the furniture. The young Ñoldo bowed lengthily before the king and smiled at the court, under the bewildered gaze of his father. Their last argument had left deep scars on Curufinwë’s soul, and now he could easily guess that his son had not been left unhurt either. Obviously, Tyelperinquar was still angry, and Curufinwë did not need him to look at him to feel his resentment. It was plain, as it almost exuded from every pore of Tyelperinquar’s skin. And he did not even try to hide it. 

“Since I have already been told of the matter you wish to discuss, King Felagund, I can but wonder why my presence was requested.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was oddly cold, a coldness which Curufinwë had never associated with his son before, and a ball of confused anxiety rolled in the pit of stomach.

“Celebrimbor,” Began Finrod. “you stand at the core of the matter which we shall discuss, thus your presence seems to us fundamental.”

“I do not see why, my king.” Continued Tyelperinquar with the same voice. “I can already foretell my father’s answers and reactions regarding your offer, and I assure you that he neither need nor want me in this room.”

Now Curufinwë was offended, and the fact that he alone knew not the matter at stake began to infuriate him. He nonetheless managed to stay calm, through a deep and quiet breath, and a silent reminder that his own emotions had to be kept under control. The frown which accompanied the look he gave Tyelperinquar was full of quiet reproaches, but his next words were not for his son. “I would really like to learn more about this particular matter, for if my son can predict my reaction, then it must be serious.” Curufinwë explained, looking suspiciously at his cousin. “Must I worry?”

“You alone can answer this question, Curufinwë.” Replied Felagund. “As for the matter at stake, I shall let my nephew explain.”

Orodreth stood up slowly and took a step forward, while Tyelperinquar’s eyes fell on his father, as to witness every single reaction which the offer would draw from him.

“Lord Curufinwë,” Orodreth began slowly, and the Ñoldo could see that he was carefully choosing his words. “As you said a little time ago, there might soon be no safe place in Beleriand, and Nargothrond itself might eventually be threatened by the Enemy. It is surely not a place where a child can grow up and receive the education and joy which young souls crave. Therefore, while my duties keep me here with my uncle, my son and my wife shall soon be sent to Brithombar in the Falas, where Círdan our friend shall receive them.”

At this point, Orodreth marked a pause and exchanged an affectionate smile with his son, while Curufinwë stood confused; there was no reason for Orodreth to tell him about this decision with such great pomp, and the request for his son’s presence was still enigmatic.

“As for my daughter,” Orodreth continued. “She has decided to stay here with me despite the dangers, for she has grown fond of Nargothrond.”

“I wish not to leave my friends.” Finduilas stated firmly, a determined and dim smile on her lips, and the interruption brought another soft but sad smile to Orodreth’s lips.

“Thus, the convoy which will leave Nargothrond is not full yet, and one person could still join it.”

The hole room went silent, and suddenly Curufinwë understood what stood behind the official display; They were all staring at Tyelperinquar, who was still staring at his father, and the painful hunch in Curufinwë’s heart grew heavier.

“Your son shall be safe in the Heavens, Curufinwë. And Círdan can be trusted.” It was Finrod’s voice, but in the midst of his confusion and his dread, Curufinwë barely heeded it. The silhouettes around him, the voices, the light, everything seemed so far away as he tried to keep his eyes on Tyelperinquar’s impassive face.

No, they could not take his son away from him. Despite their recent arguments, despite his fears and his distance, he could not imagine his life without Tyelperinquar beside him. A deep feeling of revolt, as a fierce gale, passed through his mind, sweeping away his fundamental wariness, and again, Curufinwë could feel his hands shake at his side. Clenching his fists in a clumsy attempt to hide his trouble, he managed to keep the strong wind of his emotions in bonds a bit longer, although he was almost swaying, sweating under the delicate fabric of his tunic, as a web of anxiety was woven around his heart.

What did Tyelperinquar expect? What had he foretold? How could he know about Curufinwë’s reaction when Curufinwë himself did not know how to react? The more he considered his son’s eyes, the less he could decipher them, and when Tyelperinquar talked, Curufinwë almost jumped with surprise.

“We are all waiting, father.” He said coldly. “What is your decision?”

He shuddered as he watched the eyes of the court turn to him, and the muscles of Tyelperinquar’s face tense.

“My decision?” Curufinwë had to force himself not to stammer, but his voice was not as firm as he had wished it to be. He tried to find solace in his son’s face, but the latter remained distant, as unreachable as his mind. “’Tis not… the offer has been made to you, Tyelperinquar. And it is too decisive for me to stand between you and your choice.”

Finally, Tyelperinquar dropped his gaze and a wave of sorrow crossed his face. But before Curufinwë could say more, the young Ñoldo was hastily leaving the room, discarding the usual property.

It was not only confusion but also dismay which brought the dizziness that assaulted Curufinwë, and for a long moment he stood blind and deaf to the outside world. When he eventually pulled himself together, everyone save the king had left the room, and Finrod was standing quietly a few steps away from his cousin. Patience and kindness illuminated his face, and in his eyes was floating an odd spark of sadness.

“You confused him.” Felagund whispered, and a stinging headache was now spreading through Curufinwë’s forehead.

“Am I not the one who should be confused?” He too was whispering, a bit in spite of himself. “Was not this surprise aimed at me?”

Felagund chuckled, but there was no acrimony in his laughter, only a dim derision. “I apologise. I wish it could have been done differently but as I said, your son is stubborn; he would not talk to you about this offer, unless we mentioned it first. He expected a different reaction from you.”

It was purely and sorely infuriating to realize that Finrod seemed to know more about Tyelperinquar than Curufinwë did. His retreat in the forge had lasted indeed, but Curufinwë had never imagined that it would be enough to deepen the gap between them.

“Do not worry cousin.” Said Felagund, who had surely caught the essence of the Fëanorian’s thoughts. “I shall never be a substitute for your son, and I wish not to step between the two of you. But he needed solace, and advises, and I could not leave him at the mercy of his troubling meditations while you remained hidden.”

Curufinwë stayed utterly quiet, but his face was not deprived of hints regarding his feelings; tensed and cold. He felt betrayed, stolen and evicted from what was most precious to him; his son’s life.

“Tyelperinquar was bitter because he thought he knew you. And he was confused because he believed you would take the decision for him…”

“This is ridiculous!” Curufinwë hammered with a loud voice, suddenly recovering his wits as he unbounded the revolt which would not leave his heart. “He knows I would never deprive him of such rights! He knows he has always been free to choose his path!”

Finrod nodded slowly, pondering the words. “He told me you have been different lately, that you have been treating him differently… his expectation might come from it.”

“From _it_ , you said, from _me _, you mean; from my mistakes and failures…. that is what you mean, is it not?” Curufinwë’s tone was turning sharper. “If you have something to tell about my behaviour, if you have any remonstrances against me, I prithee, Findaráto, stop beating around the bush and speak them aloud. Your delicate hypocrisy is getting on my nerves and you need not to pretend to help me when you only wish to rebuke me.”__

__“I am sorry, Curufinwë, I did not wish to mislead you.” Finrod’s voice was still calm and this odd softness of his had not left his face. “I am sorry you take it this way, I reckon you shall not accept my apology, shall you? Methinks there is no way for me to make amends.” Straightening up, Felagund nodded and headed to the door. “Keep us informed and let us know when the choice shall be made. Ereinion and his mother leave in five days.”_ _

__“Findaráto?” Curufinwë called sternly before Finrod left the room. “You might be king here, but I am still Tyelperinquar’s father and I want you to stay away from him.”_ _

__“As you wish, cousin.”_ _

__xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_ _

__“I never thought I would say this one day, but I agree with Artaresto on one point.” Tyelkormo’s voice was imbued with a queer softness to which Curufinwë was not used, and the sound of it surprised him more than the declaration itself. “The heavens might be safer, and if he leaves, your son shall fall under a strong protection, whereas if he stays here… Well… Who knows what shall befall us.”_ _

__Curufinwë did not reply; of course, he had pondered the options, and dived into the different possibilities, trying fruitlessly to discern the best one. He wanted his son to be safe indeed, and to know peace and bliss, two things which his father could not grant him anymore. Moreover, if he left he would be able to strengthen the bonds with the House of Finarfin, through Ereinion and Orodreth’s people. Perhaps could he become the young prince’s tutor… More than a truce, the two Ñoldorin houses would be bound by friendship and the alliance would hardly be broken afterwards. Tyelperinquar would not be just a dull diplomatic tool, for he would himself forge the chain of this union; He was totally capable of it, Curufinwë had no doubt._ _

__On the other hand, sending his son to the Falas implied a dreadful heartbreak, and if Curufinwë knew that he, himself, would hardly recover from it, he was ignorant of his son feelings about such a wrench. And although Tyelperinquar was smart, witty, crafty and resourceful, his father could not help thinking that he still had many things to learn. Besides, as the heir of the House of Fëanor, Tyelperinquar should dwell with his closest kin, should he not?_ _

__“No matter what option I favour, brother, the decision belongs to my son. And he shall have the last word.” The statement was definitive, and in this moment, Curufinwë silently pledged not to try to influence his son in any way._ _

__Tyelkormo chose this moment to step closer, and his strong hand he rested on his brother’s shoulder. “In any case, Curvo, I shall never leave you.” He whispered, and despite his dismay, Curufinwë nodded gratefully, seizing this thread of comfort and holding it tightly as to not drown into his own affliction._ _

__When Tyelkormo left him, he knew what he had to do, but he was fearful, unwisely anxious and the uncommon tension which he felt seemed to increase as he walked through the Caves. Tyelperinquar had not returned to the smithy, and their chambers were empty; which could only mean that he was purposely avoiding his father. Curufinwë too would have preferred to hide; Running away from what frightened him most – his son’s acrimony and his own weakness – had been easily convenient lately, and although he was not particularly proud of it, he could still pretend that he did not mean to do it. This instinctive withdrawing from life and responsibilities, from duties and care, had brought no real solace, but at least it had let him forget, for a while, and insidiously it had enhanced his capacity to pretend and deny. But now, he could not back up anymore and he had to pull himself and his son away from this dull regression. The vegetative state did not suit the House of Fëanor, did it?_ _

__He eventually found him, sitting on the ledge of a fountain carved directly into the wall of stone. The water flowed abundantly, springs of freshness fed by the blissful rains of a young summer and feeling the room with its songs. Tyelperinquar was carefully cleaning a tiara, polishing the gems with a passionate delicacy which his father could not stop admire, and when he sat next to him, avoiding his look, his own voice was feeble._ _

__“You would be more comfortable in the workshop.”_ _

__His son ignored him, focusing on his task, his ears barely trembling under his father’s tensed tone. For Curufinwë’s attempt to remain firm and impassive had not been as successful as he had wished, and everything in his behaviour seemed ready to betray his anxiety. Strengthening his controlling will, he went on sternly, although his heart was crying for his son to forgive him. Had he not been so stubborn in his pride, Curufinwë would have beseech him not to hate him for what would ultimately follow._ _

__“You must decide quickly now, you must let me know of your choice.”_ _

__Suddenly, Tyelperinquar froze and remained still a few seconds before turning to his father. “What would you do, father?” He asked, and finally Curufinwë was able to see the distress which had been haunting his son._ _

__It took him aback, like a spear piercing straight into his heart, but he locked the wave of his emotions deep inside of him. “I do not wish to influence you. You have always been free to decide who _you_ would follow.”_ _

__Tyelperinquar gave a gloomy nod, his gaze falling on the floor, and a long minute passed ere he spoke again. “I know. Yet, there is something you need to tell me before I can make up my mind…. Do you still want me beside you?”_ _

__A cold hand seemed to come and grasp Curufinwë’s heart, and while all his being craved to answer, to tell him how much he needed him, to express his affection and devotion, his guilt and remorse, Curufinwë wrapped his heart in the veil of denial; He had made a promise to himself, and all the treasures of Arda would not make him talk. For the most precious of these treasures was not his to hoard. “My answer, no matter what it is, would weight on your decision.” He said, trying to remain as cold as possible. “Thus, I cannot reply.”_ _

__With a weary hand, Tyelperinquar brushed back his raven hair and drew a deep breath in which his father could hear not only fatigue, but also anguish and sorrow. “Why must you make it even more difficult?”_ _

__“You are mistaking, my child. Had I answered you, the dilemma would have worsened.”_ _

__“That is not true.” Tyelperinquar answered hastily, yet his voice was still veiled by sorrow. “You only have to say one thing to make me stay. One word, and the dilemma would disappear.”_ _

__Curufinwë needed a little moment to internalize the revelation, and indeed, he began to see it. Plainly and painfully. If he had thought that his silence would not influence his son, he now understood that it was this silence which would ultimately draw Tyelperinquar away. Yet, since his words could hinder his son, who would collect the benefits? To keep Tyelperinquar beside him was obviously all that he wished for, but already Curufinwë started to acknowledge that it was the most egoistical and selfish thing he could do. Favouring his comfort and pride in spite of the dangers, keeping the source of solace and salvation that was his son would thus sentence the young Ñoldo and expose him to the worse. Whereas, If Curufinwë could discard his selfishness and let him go, Tyelperinquar would be protected, not only from the terrors of the North but also from Curufinwë himself. For, if he had long thought that he was the best shield for his son, the only one who knew how to protect him, this shield was now cloven, and its edges sharp and dangerous._ _

__Now the dilemma was falling on Curufinwë’s shoulders again, and he knew that in his words stood his son’s fate, whether he wanted it or not._ _

__And Tyelperinquar was waiting eagerly for these words, for an avowal which would not come. “Father…?”_ _

__Curufinwë only shook his head, his gaze firm as he stared at an invisible point in front of him. He simply could not._ _

__Obviously upset, and no less tormented, Tyelperinquar stood up urgently, his chaotic movements reflecting an inner panic which he did not try to hinder nor to hide anymore. “Please father! Say it! I beseech you! Tell me you want me to stay, tell me you need me, _ **please** _!_ _

__And still, Curufinwë remained impassive, and as he forced himself not to look at his son, as he forced his features to keep their coldness and as he held on to his distant determination, something broke within him. He could almost hear the crack of it, a wrench in his soul, a deep and incurable wound in the depths of his core._ _

__“Talk to me, father, tell me how you feel about my departure, how you feel about me!” There were tears in Tyelperinquar’s eyes, tears which Curufinwë refused to see although he could almost feel them flowing down into his own heart. If only they could wash the poison away. “Atya! Please!”_ _

__And still he was locked in his silence, ignorant and dumb; he tried to hide behind his lies, to pretend that he would not influence his son, yet he was perfectly aware that that was precisely what he was doing through his silence. And still his son was begging for a response._ _

__“Say something! Anything! You cannot let me go like this!”_ _

__All Tyelperinquar wanted was love from a father who looked indifferent, this Curufinwë knew; but if he did not reassert his love, it was precisely because he loved him too much to hold him back; Tyelperinquar had, at last, an opportunity to run away from war, death, but also from the Oath, and his father would not thwart this chance. But it also meant one horrible thing: his son would probably come to hate him. It was the price to pay for his life._ _

__“Oh, father, why?! You used to--” Stammering, Tyelperinquar seemed uncappable of holding back his anguish, but there was rage too, in his voice. And as he hid his face in his palms, fingers thrusting into his skin, Curufinwë grasped the ledge on which he was sitting as to prevent his body from moving. He was in pain, and the aching wound in his heart kept on bleeding, deepening with each of Tyelperinquar’s prayer. To see his son so distressed was insufferable. And the fact that he was the reason behind those tears was simply excruciating. But his face remained blank as death._ _

__A long moment passed as Tyelperinquar wept silently in front of a father whose stoicism was but a grim, broken mask. Between the young Ñoldo’s sobs, the music of the water rang peacefully, but the Ñoldor’s grief was too deep to be soothed by the gentle melody. When Tyelperinquar removed his hands from his face, his eyes were still red but the tears were dry. And his father was still here, a cloud of misery on his shoulders. “Why do you not leave me alone, father? Why are you even here?”_ _

__Although the reason was obvious to Curufinwë, he found not the words to express it; and if it was impossible to talk, leaving was simply inconceivable._ _

__This silence, along with his father’s immobility, did not remain unnoticed by Tyelperinquar, and for an another long while he seemed to study Curufinwë, his countenance and the meaning of it. ”I am mad at you.” His son said in sad whisper, pulling Curufinwë out of hi distressing contemplation. “But not mad enough to not see what you are trying to do. It hurts, yet I shall not be blinded by your stratagem. And indeed, it hurts… so much, although it helped me decide.”_ _

__Now Curufinwë was confused, and although he tarried in the same silence, his face betrayed his disarray, and he waited anxiously for the blow._ _

__“You were right, father; I have always been free to choose, and I have always chosen _ **you**_. It is you whom I followed in exile – not your father, not a fragile hope, not even revenge, but _**you**_. Because I wanted to. It is still you I followed when you chose Himlad as your lands, and although I had many opportunities to leave and live a life on my own, I stayed with you. It is you I followed when the siege was broken, although it meant leaving behind me everything I lived for. And it was you again whom I followed here, in Nargothrond, not Orodreth, not even Tyelkormo, nor our people.” He paused, and stared at his father for a little while, as if he was still hesitating between the two options. “How can you expect me to leave you now?”_ _

__Curufinwë looked up at his son’s face and dared stare at him for the first time since the beginning of the argument, but he was unable to actually grasp what had just been said._ _

__“You are terrible, father, stubborn and proud and cold and lately you have been exceptionally infuriating and hurtful.” Curufinwë’s eyebrows raised, but the shock was too intense for him to react. “But I know these adjectives do not wholly describe you.” Tyelperinquar kneeled right in front of his father and with shaking hands, he took hold of his fingers. When he resumed, the murmur of his voice was even softer. “I know the Ñoldo who is hiding behind these dreadful masks. I know he is my father, and I know that I love him.”_ _

__There was no word in any language of elves, men or dwarves to describe the intensity of the emotions which crossed Curufinwë’s heart in this very moment. Had he been standing, he would have probably collapsed. “Would it not be wiser to hate me.” He heard himself whisper, and Tyelperinquar shook his head._ _

__“I am still mad at you, but I cannot hate you. I wish you could tell me what I need to hear, but your silence shall not drive me away. Besides, you do not want me to leave, for if you did, you would have simply accepted Artaresto’s offer and sent me away. You would not even be here right now, would you?”_ _

__“And when did you understand that?”_ _

__“Just now.”_ _

__Although his son’s words had had the effect of a balm upon his sore soul, Curufinwë did not feel utterly relieved. He still carried the responsibility of his son’s fate, not matter what it was, and he was, willy-nilly, the motive behind Tyelperinquar’s decision to stay in Nargothrond. Even his stupid attempt to make his son despise him had drove him closer._ _

__With his feverish hands which, luckily, were not yet shaking, Curufinwë picked up the tiara which his son had dropped in his dismay. It was an exceptional piece, following a fashion which Tyelperinquar had been devising by himself. After a long inspection, the Ñoldo carefully put the jewel on his son’s head, and in this gentle and simple movement, he poured all his affection, his concern and all the tenderness which laid hidden in his heart. Staring at his son, a satisfied sigh left his lips, and pride glimmered in the dim smile that he gave. “Am I to lose all sort of credibility in your eyes, my child?” he asked quietly, gentleness covering each syllable._ _

__“Never, father. But keep in mind that you cannot get rid of me so easily.”_ _

__“Good.”_ _

__xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_ _

__The whole court was gathered in front of the Caves, and a major part of the people of Nargothrond had come too, in order to say a last farewell to the young prince. Despite the majesty of his suite, and the elegance of his figure, a shadow was covering Ereinion’s face. Curufinwë saw him struggle to fight the tears which filled his eyes as he embraced his father one last time, and the veil on Orodreth’s face was the veil of grief. He held his wife a long time too, kissing and embracing her shamelessly in front of the crowd, forcing others to step away if only in the name of courtesy. After a long embrace with his sister, Ereinion walked to Celebrimbor and they talked quietly for a little while. Driven by curiosity, Curufinwë carefully approached the two young Eldar, just enough to hear their words, all the while pretending not to heed them._ _

__“You shall be missed in the Caves, young Ereinion” Tyelperinquar stated with a genuine smile. “I wish we had had more time to learn about each other.”_ _

__“And I wish you would come with us.” Replied the younger one, not losing his wit despite his sorrow. “I like you well enough.”_ _

__Tyelperinquar smiled, and as he put a hand on Gil-Galad’s shoulder and moved closer to whisper, Curufinwë realised that his son was looking straight into his eyes, with a wry smile. “I would have loved to, young Ereinion, but my father still needs me; I cannot leave him helplessly alone.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for the kudos, guys! I really appreciate!  
> If you want a bit more, [here ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12530948)you'll find somthing Curvo would remember right after the "argument" with Celebrimbor


	11. Memory Vaults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After this succession of disappointments, it's time for a decisive shift in Curufin's motivations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a short and experimental chapter in terms of narrative pattern since it relies mostly on flashbacks. I hope it's not too confusing. [Besides, this chapter can be read independently of the rest of the story]

There is no reason to worry. Everything is in order in Nargothrond; the borders seem safe, the people calm and confident, the Fëanorian troops have strengthened Finrod’s army with the feeling that the belong here. The Narog itself seems to mirror the peaceful atmosphere which now reigns in the kingdom, in which neither wolf nor orc has stepped during the past few months: an absence of meaningful event which, even though it frustrates Tyelkormo’s thirst for action, should leave everyone with a sweet if not joyful taste on their lips.

But in the depths of the caves, his gaze glued onto the piece of velum in front of him, Curufinwë seems immune to the latent peace carried by the late autumn gale. His mind cannot rest, and throttled by his agitated thoughts, he finds himself unable to relax, deprived of sleep and uncapable to work. For, although the engine of his mind – never halting, always labouring - keeps on feeding his heart with troubles nurtured by doubts and an excess of intrusive reflexions, he can’t grasp it. The very core of his worries, the source of this anxiety – if he could just unveil the tormenting cause of his unrest…

But not on this night. On this night he has to work, to try. Again. Trembling fingers on a dripping quill, he knows there is nothing to fear. No worry. Tyelperinquar is still working in the smithies. Tyelkormo is probably drinking his share of liquor somewhere in the caves, Huan at his side. The news from Himring are good. His brothers are safe. What should Curufinwë fear?

The quill falls back in the inkpot, and the Ñoldo falls back into his chair, arms crossed and grey eyes staring at an invisible spot on the wall. Only his jaw moves, agitated by the tension in his nerves, by the never-ending cycle of doubts in his mind. He can hear a few laughter in the adjacent rooms, but he pays no heed to the noise. All he feels is this mysterious force that seems to hinder him, freezing his thoughts, and like a rat in a cage, he can but follow his own tail. And threading the yarns of his own tale. His fingers find the quill again, and soon the silence of the room is replaced with the scratching sound of ink on velum. He allows his mind to wander back in history, and forgets his hand for moment, eyes half-closed and his heart following a path which he has always been afraid to tread. Retrieving his own footsteps, ignored for too long for all they could unleash. On the parchment a drawing, a few uncertain lines, a draft too much like those he made as a child, huddled in his father’s workshop, too impressed to talk and too fascinated to not absorb all that he could see. Curufinwë smiles, and he no longer resists the urge to close his eyes… Hoping for an oblivious slumber.

\--

_Tirion. How old can he be? Young. Very young. But his diction is perfect, and his eyes already inquisitive. He sits at the dinner table, in front of his brothers. On his right, his mother, but his eyes stare intently at his father, sitting on his left. Fëanáro seems joyful. He smiles and laughs enthusiastically at something… Kano just made one of his usual puns. Curvo laughs too, although he is not sure he has understood. Now, Nelyo says something, but Curvo doesn’t care. He stares at his father. Fëanáro picks up a piece of bread, brings it to his mouth and eats it. So does Curvo, who struggles to swallow it (too focused on his father, the child has not noticed it was much too big for his young teeth). Fëanáro grabs his cup and takes a sip of his drink. So does Curvo, who finds himself released from the barely bitten piece of bread which was blocked in his throat. It seems nobody has noticed. Good. Curvo’s observation of his father continues._

_“Nerdanel dear, can you give me some more wine, please?” asks Fëanáro with a smile._

_Curvo watches his father’s cup being refilled and turns to his mother. “Nerdanel dear, can you give me some,more wine please?” He asks, adopting his father’s tone - although the voice is that of a child - his smile reflecting his father’s smile, his own small cup clasped in his tiny hand with a confidence which leaves everyone speechless._

_Silence in the room. Tyelkormo bites back a laugh. Kano and Moryo look at each other, barely trying to hide their growing smirk. Fëanáro’s gaze falls on his younger son, half-amused, half-confused, but he says nothing._ _Nerdanel glances confusingly at her oldest son - as if he had anything to do with it - and frowns, but she cannot totally hide her amusement. The child doesn’t lose his ground, and with an admirable determination, he holds his cup higher._

_“My dear son,” Nerdanel begins, trying her best to not giggle and to give her voice a reproachful pitch, “I believe you are a bit too young for the wine, but you can have grape juice instead. Besides, need I remind you that I am your mother and expect you to call me accordingly?”_

_After a quick look toward his father who struggles to keep an impassive face, Curvo gives a nod. Nelyo snorts and Fëanáro is uselessly hiding his amusement by burying his face into his cup. Curvo, who has taken up his observation, buries his face in his cup as well, caring not for the squash tickling his nostrils, and when Fëanáro puts his glass back on the table, Curvo’s own cup joins it at the very same time. Fëanáro freezes and observes his son from the corner on his eyes. So does Curvo. Fëanáro, who pretends to not see (he is now exchanging a cunning look with his older sons) runs an absent-minded hand through his hair. So does Curvo._

_“_ _You know I can see you, Curvo.” Says Fëanáro, with a tone that is supposed to be disapproving._

_“_ _You know can see you too, father.”_

\--

Curufinwë smiles as the memory unfolds. Its sweetness takes hold of his heart and he prays for the vision to go on. He doesn’t want it to fade, he craves the delicate taste of the past, the light of Tirion on his father’s face, his brother’s remorseless smiles, the delicate scent of his mother and the touch of her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t only want to keep these memories, he also wants them to keep him.

\--

_“Nerdanel,” Fëanáro kisses his wife’s cheek and gently entwines his fingers with hers. ‘”I think we have a small problem.”_

_Stepping next to his mother, Curvo takes hold of Nerdanel’s free hand, but he cannot reach her cheek, and instead, drops a clumsy kiss on her finger. “_ _I think we have a small problem.” He repeats, looking up at her._

_“_ _Not a small one…” Nerdanel laughs as she picks up her son. “A tiny one.”_

_Curvo cannot conceal his childish consternation, and he glances at his father, waiting for him to react – but Fëanáro has anticipated it, and decided to not to do anything. He stares back at his son, inexpressive, quiet and still. So, does Curvo. The staring contest lasts a minute or two, until Nerdanel stops it by placing her son in her husband’s arms._

_“As long as he does not call me 'Nerdanel' again, it is your tiny problem, Fëanáro. Just make sure he does not offend anyone by trying to impersonate you.”_

_“_ _Why would he offend anyone?”_

_“Why would he offend anyone?”_

_Nerdanel’s smile widens. “And since he is so good at repeating everything you say, avoid any sort of obscenities.” “_

_He has four older brothers, it would be vain to keep him from learning obscenities. Besides, he needs to enrich his vocabulary.”_

_Oh. That’s a lot of words to repeat. The child frowns as he focuses but he does not give up, and shows no sign of disarray. “He has four brothers and… he is learning obs---curity… to keep his vocabulary rich.”_

_“After all, I could turn this new fancy of his into the most efficient lexical teaching.”_

_“After all, I could turn this new fancy of his into the most efficient lexical teaching.” The child repeats, proudly remembering the entire sentence, even though he isn’t sure what ‘lexical’ means._

_Nerdanel shakes her head, but her smile seems glued to her lips. “So I believe it is not a problem anymore?”_

_But Fëanáro is already heading towards the door, and the child in his arms has never felt so happy before._

\--

If only he could drown into this memory and linger in its currents, as the warm waves of forgotten joy drench his fëa and purify his heart. So he clings to the images that pass too swiftly in his mind, and tries, uselessly, to capture them. Instead of a quill, he holds now a piece of chalk and scrambles like a madman on the parchment in front of him: a sketch of his father’s face, a few lines supposed to convey a vision of his father’s workshop in Tirion – and his name, again and again.

\--

_It is late, the court is almost empty, and Fëanáro is bowing in front of king Finwë. Behind him, the young Ñoldo mimics his father and gives a long respectful bow which doesn’t fail at impressing Finwë. The child is even more impressed, as he has always been, by his grandfather. The king. But he doesn’t want to show it._

_“_ _Well, is my young grandson already planning to become the most diligent courtier of Tirion?” Asks Finwë with a smile that betrays his amused affection. “_

_Your grandson has decided to do everything I do…”, Fëanáro explains._

_“_ _Your grandson has decided to do everything…”_

_“_ _…And to repeat everything I say.”_

_“…And to repeat everything I say.”_

_“Therefore, I daresay he will never disappoint you in terms of affection and devotion.”_

_“_ _Therefore I daresay he shall never disappoint you terms of affection and devotion.”_

_Eyes wide open and surprise burning in the grey depths of iris, Finwë observes the strange pair in front of him. Strange but not as grotesque as it could seem. In fact, it makes sense, the child appearing as a fragmented part of Fëanáro, not a seedling but a very portion of him. A midget one. The boy wears his hair just like his father, the same expression floats on his face, the same flame in his eyes and the same determination in his chin. The king is speechless for a moment, until a loud laughter falls from his lips and echoes in the court._

_“_ _So what do we have here?” Finwë asks, kneeling down in front of his grandson to better look at the youthful face. “A midget prince? A pocket Curufinwë?”._

_With his grandfather’s gentle fingers wrapped delicately around his chin, and his benevolent eyes on his face, Curvo doesn’t dare to move. Puzzled and no less impressed, he casts an eye toward his father whose features display pride and amusement. ‘Pocket Curufinwë’ is a naming which doesn’t remain unnoticed._

\--

“Pocket Curufinwë”.

The words draw a smile from his lips, but the chalk has already stopped its labour. The piece of parchment is ruined, words scribbled upon words, names upon names, portraits merging with tengwar, ink and specks of chalk mixed together to form thick, sooty spots on what used to be an immaculate promise. As in a trance, Curufinwë has paid no attention to his hands’ movements, and as he looks at them now, he finally notices the stains, like traces of his own mistakes. Ungrateful, unworthy heir – his devotion to his father should have opened the way, it should have brightened up the path that his determined footsteps have been treading. Instead, it closed the doors to enlightenment and left him confused, shameful and utterly lost under the vaults of his fate, which is yet obscured by his own fears. He closes his eyes and remembers his grandfather’s laughing voice.

_“Be careful Fëanáro, soon, he will be able to anticipate each of your word and action.”_

Finwë was right. For long, Curufinwë had been able to see, feel, sense, understand and almost foretell his father’s thoughts, reactions, decisions. But It seems to him that the connection between father and son died with the father, and Curufinwë has been left powerless, yet blinded by his determination to cling to his father’s image. An image which he cannot grasp. What would Fëanáro do?

What would he think of him? He buries his head between his arms – unwilling to look reality in the face.

\--

_The young child is focused on the position of his fingers on the quill, right beside his father’s desk. Fëanáro has allowed him to have his own small desk in his study. And as the father works, so does Curvo, who tirelessly tries to improve his handwriting. It is still clumsy, he can see it – it looks terrible, and has nothing in common with his father’s handwriting – but what he doesn’t see is how proud it makes Fëanáro. The latter’s eyes have left his own work, and he silently observes his son, touched by the child’s devotion and impressed by his quiet determination. But there is something wrong, isn't it?_ _Eventually, Fëanáro calls his son and after a moment of perplexity during which the child doesn’t know what to do with his quill, his father takes him on his lap._

_“Your handwriting is improving, my child. This is very good” Curvo is about to repeat his father’s words when Fëanáro, with a smile, put a finger on his lips. “Let me speak. There is something important I need to tell you.”_ _The young Ñoldo nods respectfully, his two grey eyes wide open with the anticipation of an eager pupil. “Curvo, I want to make deal with you. Do you know what it means?”_

_The child frowns, pinches his lips, engaged in a solid reflexion. “Like a bargain?” “_

_Well, yes almost. What we call a deal is when someone promises to do something for someone else and receives a promise in return. Does it sound right?_

_“Yes father! We should do this!”_

_The child’s enthusiasm happens to be contagious, and Fëanáro chuckles as his son claps his hands. But he is soon serious again and gently takes his son’s agitated hand between his fingers. “First and foremost, Curvo, you must wait for the conditions and be sure you agree, alright? So here is what I offer: I promise you to teach you everything I know about anything you want to know.” The child’s eyes widen, and he is speechless for a moment._

_“Really…? About the beautiful rocks?”_

_“Yes, my son, if this is what you want.”_

_“..And I will know how to make shiny jewels?”_

_“If you want to become a jewel-smith, you shall become a jewel-smith.”_

_“And the complicated words? Will you tell me about all the complicated words?"_

_“About the complicated words, their origins and evolution.”_

_“Even the words we don’t use anymore?”_

_“All the words.”_

_“All the words?”_

_Fëanaro nods solemnly, but not without uttering another chuckle._

_“And I’ll be just like you, father?” There were sparkles in Curvo’s eyes, and the father could only wish for his son to never lose this enthusiasm._

_“This is when your own promise comes into the deal.” The child stares at him, greedy eyes begging for more. “In exchange, you must promise me that you will always try to follow your own desires, to listen to your heart and to be yourself. Can you do that, my child?”_

_Curvo ponders the offer: his face betrays his confusion, but the way he rubs his chin with his fingers can only amuse his father. “I do not know who is myself , father.”_ _He eventually says, suddenly bashful._

_“Do not worry about that, Curvo. You have all the time you need to discover it ; you will eventually know yourself and your own heart. If I did, you can surely do it as well, don’t you think? "_

_“_ _I guess... I can try, father.”_

_“Do we have a deal?”_

_The child gives a determined nod. “I promise father. I promise I will find myself.”_

\--

When Curufinwë raises his head, he is gasping, struggling for air. So he failed in that too…

With a few clumsy movements, he leaves his chair and stumbles toward a basin. The fresh water on his face doesn’t relieve the tension. His own heartbeats echo in his head, in his stomach, in his limbs. He tries to calm his nerves, but his airways are still blocked by a shameful and rotten feeling which he cannot decipher.

He failed. Yes. But it is not too late, is it? His mind sharpens - or so he thinks – as he furtively meets his own reflect in the mirror hanging on the wall. He must ignore it. Avoid it. Must he become someone else? Must he step away from the path which he has been treading for so many years? Must he stop clinging to the mirror image which has always led his footsteps?

He can

He must

Be someone

Different.

He didn’t live up to his father’s memory. He could neither anticipate, nor foretell. He could not even guess what his father would have done…. He failed. But now. Now he remembers. He was wrong all the way. Now it is time to be someone else. Himself, whoever that is. He must act according to his own desires….which are yet to be defined.

To protect his son.

To retrieve the Silmarili.

To muster the required strength to fight the Enemy. Oh but not now not yet.

First, he must care after his people, here, in Nargothrond.

To keep Nargothrond safe.

Nargothrond.

As his new stronghold. And to protect it, he needs influence. he needs… power.

“If I can be you father, I shall be who you expected me to be…My own master.”

**_A king._ **


	12. Playing with fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long story short, hm?  
> .... Celegorm doesn't agree with his brother's initiatives, and Finrod thinks he has to do something about it... for better or for worse.

Nargothrond was silent, save for the sound of footsteps on the tiles. At this hour of the night, it seemed empty, devoid of breath and life, while the only light was that which was provided by the few lampstones which never stopped burning in the depths of the caves. The contrast was blatant between the lively activity of the day – with its songs, laughter and the ongoing hubbub of the inhabitants – and the seemingly emptiness of the night. It was made even more obvious for, behind the closed gates of the caves, none could actually guess the hour. There was no other choice than to trust the beautiful hourglasses offered by the king to his people.

Slowly stroking the red cat lying on his lap, Curufinwë was trying to soothe the stiffness of his muscles along with the soreness of a heart gnawed on by doubts. In this silence, he could both think and pray, though the prayer was neither for the Valar nor for Eru, bur for himself. A prayer like a safekeeping, an enclosed place in his mind which was supposed to protect him from his own shame and to help him brace himself for whatever fate had been devised for him. The cat stirred, and that was when the Ñoldo acknowledged a distant pitter patter which was indeed increasing in speed and sound. Yet he felt drowsy, and in his semi-awareness he barely paid any attention to it. So when the door suddenly opened with a crash, Curufinwë (and the cat) jumped with surprise and stared blankly at the intruder.

“Did I give you a start, brother?” asked Tyelkormo without a smile. His face was paler than usual, but his hair was beautifully kept in long plates and his garments displayed an unquestionable finesse which greatly contrasted with the fell glint of eyes.

“Yes. Yes indeed.” Curufinwë was confused, as if violently dragged out of a dreamy and a comfortable slumber. “I was—”

“Good.” Tyelkormo cut him off with a sharp movement of his hand. “Because I too have felt rather surprised lately. And that is an understatement.”

Curufinwë blinked, even more confused but not impressed.

“… and do not start to pretend that you do not know what it is about.” Tyelkormo ignored his brother’s confusion and he started to pace through the room, his wide and quick steps alarming the cat who found nothing better to do than to hide under the nearest cupboard.

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

Tyelkormo froze. His fists clenched and Curufinwë heard a sigh, sharp and stern. “Do no make me do it, brother.”

“Do what, Tyelkormo?” He was not provoking him, and if Tyelkormo was questioning his brother’s genuineness, it was a mistake.

“I do not mind you leading the debate during the councils, Curvo. I do not mind you taking the initiatives in terms of political involvement in Nargothrond. And I do not mind you playing your little diplomatic games. Politics is your field more than mine, and I trust you with it.”

Curufinwë tried to speak, to remind his brother of his recurrent interventions in this so-called political game, but a single sign of Tyelkormo’s hand hindered his complaint.

“… But orc-hunting, military practises and tactics are mine more than yours.” Again, Curufinwë was about to argue (who would have ever denied his own skills as a military strategist?), but his brother did not let him. “And the archers are under my command. Did we not agree on that?”

Now Curufinwë understood. “Indeed. Yet, I thought–”

“No Curufinwë. No. I have enough of your schemes. ” The tone was sharp, so sharp that Curufinwë couldn’t repress a wince. “I have enough of your thinking that you know better. I have enough your self-centred refrain. _**This**_ is not about you.”

The words didn’t miss their target, and like pointed shafts they pierced right into Curufinwë’s pride. He folded his arms on his chest, sat back in the sofa, and with his eyes staring sharply at his brother, he snorted. “If this isn’t about me, why are you even here Turcafinwë?”

Tyelkormo’s reply first came through a gaze that was sterner than a stormy sky. “To summon your morals. Does this word ring a bell, Curufinwë? Or need I remind you that you used to abide by something called virtue?

It was enough. Curufinwë stood up only to walk right to his brother. Two stern faces challenging one another. “Have you finished, Turcafinwë? Is your little lecture over? Because I do not plan to spend the whole night listening idly to your sermon.”

Tyelkormo gave a scornful snicker. “Why not? After all, I did not come to hear your poor excuses. I already know how you will try to justify your deeds.”

“Oh believe me, you do not.”

“Believe you?!” Now Tyelkormo was laughing loudly in his brother’s face, obviously unwilling to give him the presumption of innocence that Curufinwë had hoped for. His own anger was increasing, and as frustration rolled in the pit of his stomach, he stepped backward, if only to not be tempted to smack Tyelkormo’s face. His hands grabbed the back of chair which he used as a support to brace himself, but his fingers were already squeezing the wooden backrest. Somehow, it helped him control himself and wait for his brother’s laughter to stop. “Are you done, Turcafinwë?’ He asked gloomily.

His brother didn’t answer, but the scornful grin on his face was eloquent enough. For a little moment, silence filled the room, heavy and thick. There was no point in beating around the bush, and so Curufinwë resumed. “I did give orders to some of our archers and bid them ride off to the northern borders of the realm because _**one of us**_ had to do it.”

“I do not remember agreeing to that.”

“No?” replied Curufinwë. “Did we not agree that we ought to keep an eye on the shadows crawling through the moors and into Nargothrond ? Because I do remember you saying it was the weakest post in the defence of the realm.”

“I know very well what I said. And I never implied that we ought to defend it. Findaráto can very well manage on his own, can he not?”

“You know very well that he cannot. Just like you know that we have a debt. Our place in this realm is guaranteed solely by our capacity to defend it.”

Another snicker, another scornful glance and Tyelkormo shook his head. “And so you believed that it gave you the right to command my troops?”

Curufinwë was tired of this conversation. And already he knew that he would not get his brother to listen to reason. “ _ **Our**_ troops, Tyelkormo.” He replied with a sigh. “It has always been _**our**_ troops. _**Our**_ responsibilities. _**Our**_ duties.”

“Really, Curvo?” Curufinwë did not like the mischievous glint which had appeared in his brother’s eyes. “Then why do you insist on carrying the burden, the blames and hardship on your own?

Curufinwë was speechless; he opened his mouth but not words would come out. So Tyelkormo went on. “Besides, if you wanted to send our archers to the moors, you should have as well send them under my command. You should have let me go with them.”

“Out of the question. You ought to remain with our people.”

“Those riders you sent away are our people.”

 _You ought to stay with me._ That was what Curufinwë should have said. That was what Curufinwë wanted to say. But he could not utter the words. Terrified by the burning truth they carried, he could only lock them up in the back of his mind, keeping them away from his brother’s perspicacity.

“I did what I had to do.” Curufinwë finally stated, sternly, his frustration slowly turning into animosity. “I did what was expected of me.”

“Your senses must have been blurred, brother. That is not what I expected of you.”

The younger brother bit tongue, but it didn’t prevent the horrid feeling from spreading through his limbs. A strange, embarrassing silence was surrounding them. Tyelkormo’s anger seemed to abate, although his brother knew that it could be awaken with one single word. He himself wished not to argue any longer. He was so tired. But he would stand his ground.

The cat crawled out of his hidden place and stared at the two Noldor, his big yellow eyes moving from one Elda to the other, as if he expected them to pay attention to him. They did not even acknowledge his presence. Jawlines tensed, sharp breaths and clenching fists; what else was there to be said?

“I would have never expected you to do anything like that, Curufinwë.” Tyelkormo’s voice sounded different, unusually sombre, if not sad. “What happened to you? Who have you become?”

The chuckle that escaped Curufinwë’s lips was bitter and tasted like blood. “How can you even ask, Turcafinwë? You know me. You know me better than anyone.”

Tyelkormo shook his head slowly, the gloom on his face increasing with each new seconds. “I thought I did.”

The cat followed him out the room, and the door closed on Curufinwë’s quiet anxiety.

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During the following days, Curufinwë’s exhaustion did not decrease. On the contrary. And the circumstances did not help.

Tyelkormo had never been very assiduous regarding the royal councils. Relying on his brother, he used to be quite negligent and rarely attended the meetings, if only because he deemed his actual actions among their people much more potent than lengthy discussions which, most of the times, led to nothing but dead-ends. Curufinwë had never complained, although he would have made good use of his brother’s support during the debates. And anyway, even when Tyelkormo did attend the councils, his outspokenness and lack of tact and patience would sometimes work to the Fëanorian’s disadvantage – according to Curufinwë. 

Yet, since that dreadful argument between the two brothers, Tyelkormo was making a point of honour at attending every single meeting, no matter the importance or the topic at stake. Even if it didn’t involve their people, even if he had no interest in participating, even when he didn’t know what it was about. He did not really challenge his brother, but his deep grey eyes always stared at him with a painful intensity. Ere long, Curufinwë started to suspect his brother to be watching him.

A base attempt to keep an eye on him.

How upsetting. And how disappointing.

The sudden disappearance of this trust which had always been the main features of their relationship completely undermined what remained of Curufinwë’s good spirits, and he soon found himself burdened with a most distasteful grief.

Of course, the gossips had ran wild in Nargothrond, but if they all pretended to know about the feud, Curufinwë had kept his lips locked. And he knew his brother well enough to suspect any leak from him. When deep, personal matters were at stake, Tyelkormo was no less secretive than he was.

As for Tyelperinquar, he had asked no question, but Curufinwë could very often feel his son’s eyes on him. Inspecting him. Judging him. What he exactly knew of the conflict, Curufinwë had no clue, for they had not talked about it. But Tyelperinquar was smart, and even if he hadn’t managed to get any information from his uncle, he had probably guessed most of the truth already. His father now knew that he should never underestimate the young Ñoldo’s perspicacity. 

In any case, Tyelperinquar too was watching him.

In the midst of his growing paranoia, Curufinwë longed for loneliness. But there was no safe place anymore and anywhere he looked, he saw but greedy eyes and eager ears.

On that night, he left the smithies early. He wanted to escape, although he knew not where to go. He wandered through the long corridors for a moment, and the deep thoughtful frown on his forehead sufficed to keep anyone from bothering him with a request or a mere greeting. He pretended to be busy, and it suited him perfectly.

The Ñoldo eventually found an empty room behind the library. A sort of back room where was kept a few old chairs and tables that needed to be repaired, along with some forgotten scrolls which should have been filed long before. He rummaged through the documents for a little while, took a close look at the furniture, promised himself to eventually come back with some tools, and sat down on the best-looking seat he could find. The room was dark, dusty, and a musty smell invaded it, but it was quiet and the whole place conveyed an odd nostalgic atmosphere. Alone in its darkness, Curufinwë could finally allow himself to ponder and doze. Although aware of his loneliness, of the chasm of gloom in his heart, he would not complain. Anger, shame, disappointment were feelings which he’d rather keep lock within him.

He didn’t know how long he strayed there, but he was suddenly startled by the sudden appearance of light. Someone had stepped into the room which Curufinwë had purposely kept in the dark. Ere long he recognized the soft sound of silk and taffeta (too much of it), and the clinking of the golden bracelets. He kept his eyes shut, pretending to sleep, but he could already tell that this poor trick wouldn’t deceive his cousin.

No words were said, but Curufinwë could feel Felagund’s eyes upon him, as if trying to pierce the shield being which he kept his mind. He kept it locked, unwilling to let his cousin slip in, even superficially. And so a silent battle of mind against mind began. The Fëanorion didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Felagund’s presence was growing heavier, stronger and more invasive which each breath he drew. Curufinwë could but cloister himself in a mute resistance.

Finally, Felagund retreated and the Fëanorion opened his eyes, only to see the king sitting in an old dilapidated chair and staring at him. His fingers were crossed under his chin, as in a prayer or a deep reflection. His face was thoughtful, but nothing in his features reflected the nature of those thoughts. As for the contrast between the rich garments of the king and the shabbiness of his seat, it was rather disconcerting, if not plainly risible, but Curufinwë was in no mood for jests.

“You are troubled, my friend.” The king finally said with a slow and deep voice which wasn’t devoid of concern.

“Whether that is true or not, I do not recall asking for your solicitude. Please cousin - and I will only ask once - keep your pity and leave me be.”

“Pity has nothing to do with it, Curufinwë.” The king stood up, now looking clearly down at his cousin. “Your current state of mind weakens you, and you are my ally, are you not? As a king, and given the situation, I cannot suffer my allies to be weak. Am I clear enough or must I elaborate?”

Curufinwë’s sole reaction relied in the hoarse, sullen groan which left his lungs.

“I am neither blind nor stupid, Curufinwë. I know you and your brother have been at variance with each other lately. And I believe I know the reasons of your quarrel.”

“That is none of your business.” If he were irascible before, Curufin was now sorely offended, furious, and as usual, only his eyes revealed the intensity of his wrath. As for his body, it was tensed, and his voice was cold, but there was no effusion of anger. “You may be the king here, but this title does not give you the right to stick your nose into our business.”

“On the contrary. My duty is to make sure my allies are still in a position of strength and capable of responding to my call. Yet – I am certain you know that – your quarrelling with Tyelkormo brings disruption and confusion among your troops and mine – and they are no more blind than I am. Besides, if you and Tyelkormo cannot be brought to an agreement while sitting at my meetings, I am afraid the first victim of this feud might be Nargothrond itself.”

“My, my Findaráto…” Curufinwë’s bitterness was mingling with an acrid irony. “What happened to your compassion? I believed you were the embodiment of sympathy but look at you now! So practical, so coldly calculating. Beware, soon you might turn into a better schemer than I.”

“I am compassionate when the circumstances require compassion. But you said it yourself, you want nothing from me, neither pity nor sympathy. And a king cannot only rely on his sentiments, can he? You should know this better than anyone else, Atarincë.”

“I did not allow you to use my mother-name.”

“I begin to think that someone has to use it, if only to remind you of your place.”

It seemed the light of the lamp was growing dim. Curufinwë stood up and stared right into his cousin’s eyes. He indeed found no pity there, and the king’s usual thoughtful stance was gone. “You think yourself above me, do you not, Findaráto? “Like cracks in a mirror, Curufinwës anger was now breaking through his austerity. “Yet you should keep in mind that the line of Fëanáro is and shall ever be the eldest one – with or without crowns to adorn our brows.”

Findaráto said nothing, but after a few seconds, a gentle smirk appeared on his lips. “I do not forget it Curufinwë. Nonetheless, in this kingdom I am the one wearing a crown. And there is nothing you can do about it.”

Taken aback by the boldness of his cousin’s statement, the Fëanorion held his breath. And clenched his fist. A fist which he would have had gladly driven into the lovely face in front of him. “What do you infer?” He managed to whisper under his breath.

“Well, you are my allies indeed I respect you as such, and far be it from me the will to deny your lordship. But you are not me equal, Curufinwë. You and your line, no matter how grand your exploits have been, and might be, have forfeited your privileges… and you cannot pretend to be surprised, not after what you did. In fact, I believe that you should have expected it the day you sworn this loathsome oath…. You, your father and your brothers are way too smart to not have expected it.”

The king was purposely provoking him, this Curufinwë knew. What he didn’t know was the reasons behind these provocations.

“The dispossessed you are, the dispossessed you shall ever be. You can no longer pretend to be astounded by this new title of yours… and of this one, at least, you are worthy.” The sigh which had punctuated the king’s sentence conveyed both irony and affliction in the most confusing way.

Curufinwë did not reply as yet, and instead he tried to catch his breath, to soothe the blazing ire which threatened to erupt, but before he could pull himself together, another voice roared behind the king.

“Shut up, Felagund!” Both Curufinwë and the king froze, taken aback by the unexpected intruder. “And step away from my brother.” 

Tyelkormo was now walking towards them, and with a few slow movements, Findaráto turned towards him, obviously unimpressed as the Fëanorian went on. “Is that a proper behaviour for a king? Provocation and humiliation? And you dare speak of respect, compassion and worth?”

Curufinwë was speechless. His brother’s intervention was the last thing he had expected. And probably the last thing he wanted. “You stay away from this, brother.” He said, yet the look of surprise was still clouding his face. “It is between Findaráto and I.”

“Allow me to disagree, Curvo.” Tyelkormo spat, but his anger was not for his brother. “This is between the elder son of Finarfinwë and the sons of Fëanáro. What is it that you implied, Findaráto, when you talked about equality and worth, hm? Do you really believe that this circlet of gold on your brow gives you the right to judge us? Do you really believe it to be a token of your worth?” A spiteful laughter left Tyelkormo’s lips, and with a cunning glint in his eyes, he turned towards Curufinwë. “Do you mark that, brother? Our cousin values his worth more than ours!”

Curufinwë could but smirk, encouraged by his sibling’s high spirits. “Indeed. And tell us Findaráto, what have you accomplished so far which could override our value?”

Felagund’s eyes travelled from one Fëanorion to the other, but his face remained expressionless, safe for the glint of everlasting pride in his eyes. After a short moment which seemed to last forever, he gave a soft smile, a short bow, and a few words. “That is yet to be revealed, cousins.”

And with his usual slow footsteps and the soft sound of creased silk, he walked away and left the two Fëanorions alone in the room. He had taken the lampstone with him, and so the two brothers found themselves in the dark, which, all things considered, was probably for the better. Indeed, the silence that followed Felagund’s departure was heavy with uneasiness, until Curufinwë’s pride finally overtook him. “You did not have to step between us, Turco. I could have managed it. I was actually doing very well on my own.”

Tyelkormo’s answer started with another fit of laughter. “Really, Curvo? From where I stood, it did not seem so. In fact, you looked rather pathetic, holding back your fists while our cousin humiliated us.”

“I was actually preparing myself to—”

“...Sure.”

With his hands on his hips and a look of heavy disapprobation on his face, Curufinwë stared at his brother silently.

“Do not take me wrong, Curvo. I did not do it for you. I did it for us, for our family.” An odd mischievous smirk was lingering on Tyelkormo’s lips. “Findaráto had to be stopped. And _**one of us**_ had to do it… do you not agree?”

“Ahaha. Very amusing, Turco.”

“I know. I am hilarious.”

With a last snort, Tyelkormo headed to the door and Curufinwë was on his heels. He knew it had to happen now… or never. And although his ego anticipated nothing more than this conversation, he had to put his pride aside and to speak to his brother. “Turco?”

“What is it now?”

“Do you still refuse to understand my point?” Curufinwë was surprised by the sound of his own voice, unusually weak, and yet not devoid of confidence.

”which is…?”

“You and me. We are not interchangeable, that is true. Yet, we must back up one another. We are-- ”

“A team. Aye, Curvo. I know.” Tyelkormo answered as he came to halt. He glanced at his brother. “Meaning we must work together. And talked to each other. As we used to do in Himlad.”

Uneasiness washed over him, and Curufinwë looked away. He had changed indeed, but he had thought he had managed to become who Tyelkormo expected him to be. Yet, in that too he had failed, and he could see now that he had mistaken his brother’s expectations. And Curufinwë remained in the dark; whoever Tyelkormo expected him to be was a mystery, and he found himself unable to decipher the hopes of the only person who had so rarely questioned him. Now, what Curufinwë kept on questioning was his own identity.

He gave a slow nod, caring not for the curious look which, he supposed, was on his face.

“You say say yes but your eyes are filled with doubt, Curvo. Stop trying to deceive me. You know it is not in your power. You may have changed, but I can still smell it when you lie.”

“I do not lie to you.”

“Indeed, you first lie to yourself. And that is worse. But you can no longer fool anyone. Even your son is aware of your tendency to lure yourself. It must stop. Why do you think Felagund took the upper hand so easily?”

Although he had asked for this conversation, Curufinwë didn’t like the way it was taking, and he loathed to go any further on this gruesome path. “I will think about it.”

“And there you go again.”

“Shut up Turco.”

Turcafinwë rolled his eyes, but the sigh he gave appeared like an agreement. He understood. He would wait, until his brother felt ready. Or so Curufinwë hoped. And despite the prickly frustration that floated between them, Tyelkormo wrapped one strong arm around his brother’s shoulders. Nothing else needed to be said. Nothing else really mattered.

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A few days later, as he and Tyelkormo greeted Canyorë and the riders which were coming back to the Caves, Curufinwë saw the King observing them. Felagund was standing alone in one of the empty corridors that left to main halls, and from the gates where Curufinwë stood, Finrod looked like a shining sentinel clad with gold and pearls entwined with the blond strands that were hiding half of his face. Yet, Curufinwë could tell the king was watching him. He could also tell there was a smile on his face. A smile which conveyed nothing but a blazing pride.

And suddenly he understood.

After a quick but genuine pat on Canyorë’s back, he walked towards his cousin. Quicks steps, and a face which was much more severe and confident than during their last meeting. He stopped right in front of the king and looked into his eyes. “Are you happy with yourself, cousin?”

“No more than you, I presume, Curufinwë “

“If you expected me to thank you, you can as well kiss my feet.”

The Finarfinwëon gave a curious smile before turning over.

“Do not turn your back on me, Findaráto!”

“We both had what we wished for, cousin. You had your brother back, and I, my allies reunited and strong again. Why would you complain?”

Grabbing the king by one shoulder, Curufinwë forced his cousin to face him. the Fëanorion was impressed, and quite in spite of himself, he found himself respecting Felagund for this ingenious scheme. But he would neither admit it, nor forgive him. After, Felagund had manipulated them. And this curious cocktail of emotions only increased his indignation. “Who do you take me for, Findaráto? A common pawn with which you can play?”

Felagund did not struggle, but he was staring at Curufinwë’s hand on his gown, surely anxious to see the Fëanorian’s grip damage the precious fabric. Curufinwë let go of him.

“Curufinwë,” the king said with a kind smile. “One day soon, you will thank me for what I did. I know it. And so do you.”

The Fëanorion snorted and slowly he stepped back, yet keeping his eyes on his cousin. “No Findaráto. I will not give you this satisfaction. But if you insist, I could very well give you a taste of your own medicine.”

“Oh, I would expect no less from you, Curufinwë.”


End file.
